Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  ‘Go back to school?’ she shouted. ‘With the form below? You can’t mean it?’

  ‘Just for one term, and you could have another go at the history too, perhaps? The school runs special classes for revision. You would resit the exams again in December.’

  ‘Special classes for dunces, you mean? Surely it’s not really that important? When am I going to need an equilateral triangle ever again?’

  ‘You’re no dunce and you know it.’ Pa’s patience was fraying, she could tell. ‘We just think you took your eye off the ball last term. Anyway, have a think about it, that’s all we’re asking.’

  Think about it, she grumbled to herself later, throwing stones into the sea. The beach was always the best place if you were feeling a bit sorry for yourself: that great expanse of ocean, the wind and the waves going on forever. It seemed to even things out in your head a bit, just being there. They’ve thought about it, they mean, and that’s what they want me to do.

  The trouble was, she knew they were right. She was no dunce. Yes, her teachers had warned that she was in danger of failing unless she pulled her socks up, but they were so easily charmed by a bright smile and her promises to knuckle down. Yes, her understanding of some subjects was a bit shaky, but she’d breezed through till now, confident of being able to pull it off somehow. She knew, inside, that Pa was right. She was perfectly capable of getting better grades. If only she’d concentrated harder in lessons, and done more revision instead of hanging around with Billy Bishop.

  ‘Oh Lord.’ She sat down on the shingle and rested her chin in her hands. ‘There’s nothing for it, Kathleen Motts. You’re going back to school.’

  But there were still several weeks of the holidays to enjoy. The highlight of the summer was usually the regatta down at the ferry, where she and her mother ran a tea stall to raise funds for the lifeboat. They worked side by side for two days beforehand, baking and brewing home-made lemonade. Ma taught her how to make Victoria sponges, shortbread and carrot cake – this was the one Kath loved the most, transforming those simple vegetables into delicious moist mouthfuls.

  The weather was perfect; the sun came out from time to time and there was a gentle breeze to please the sailors. Thank heavens it wasn’t raining like last year, when they’d had to take refuge under the porch of the Ferry Boat Inn. As the afternoon drew on the winds became increasingly gusty, and cries of ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ rose from the spectators as dinghies capsized in dozens, sails flattened against the waves like moths floundering in a rain shower.

  Bert Stock’s Famous Funfair was in operation as usual. Kath loved to watch the little ones enjoying themselves on the rides, indulging in fond childhood memories of going round and round on the top deck of the miniature toy bus. Towards the end of the afternoon there would be a fancy dress parade with children dressed in various degrees of credibility as pirates, ballerinas, wizards or teddy bears. After failing to win a prize two years running, she’d refused to take part ever again.

  Of course there was the usual official business, speeches and prize-giving, but perhaps best of all was the culmination of the day’s festivities, the pram race. Crowds gathered to enjoy the absurd spectacle of prams precariously overloaded with fully grown men dressed as babies, lining up to be pushed by other men masquerading as grotesque travesties of nannies.

  Joan poked her in the ribs. ‘Look, there, in the pram. It’s Billy.’

  ‘Can’t be,’ Kath said. ‘He wouldn’t . . .’ The words died in her mouth. The boy she’d believed to be so sophisticated was sitting in a large pram, naked save for a frilly bonnet and huge towelling nappy, with a baby’s dummy in his mouth. His father, complete with skirt, starched cap and apron, stood behind, burly hands clasping the handle.

  ‘How could he?’ she whispered. ‘How humiliating.’ But neither man seemed the slightest bit embarrassed – in fact, they were larking about to amuse their friends, Billy whining like a baby and his father slapping him around the head with a rattle. It occurred to Kath that they and many of the other contestants had been in the pub for most of the afternoon.

  It was at that moment she looked up and saw on the other side of the crowd a familiar face: the man she’d met at the station who’d asked directions to Bawdsey, with two others, including Weasel-face. They looked like schoolteachers or office workers, painfully out of place in their jackets and ties, and genuinely bemused by the spectacle before them.

  The dark man caught her eye with what she thought was a smile of recognition, although it was hard to tell behind those thick glasses. But just at that moment the starting pistol cracked and a great roar came from the crowd. The course was uneven and it wasn’t long before many of the prams were struggling with broken wheels or springs. Some actually collapsed, tipping the ‘babies’ out onto the ground amid much hilarity. Billy and his father suffered no such mishaps and soon took a commanding lead. Just a few minutes later they passed the finishing post well ahead of the rest.

  Kath ran to congratulate them, but found herself pushed aside by a bunch of Billy’s friends who hoisted him onto their shoulders, parading and crowing in triumph. He barely acknowledged her, and she headed back to the stall feeling confused and despondent.

  Her mother was serving teas to the three men from the Manor.

  ‘Hello there,’ Kath said brightly. ‘Remember me? I was at the station?’

  ‘Ah yes, thank you. You were most kind. Miss . . .?’

  ‘Motts, Kathleen Motts.’

  ‘Do you live in Felixstowe, Miss Motts?’ That voice again: gentle, educated, rather posh. There were plenty of that sort at the tennis club every summer holiday, and she usually tried to avoid them. But there was something rather sweet and unsophisticated about this man, his hesitant manner rather endearing.

  ‘We do,’ she replied. ‘I take it you’re not from round here?’

  ‘No indeed. It is a great pleasure to be at the seaside.’

  ‘I suppose after that pram race you must think we’re all completely barmy?’

  A tentative smile lightened his face. ‘You certainly have some curious customs.’

  ‘You found your way to the Manor okay, then?’ Kath cocked her head towards the mansion so clearly visible from here, high on its cliff at the other side of the river mouth. ‘I see someone’s trying to rival the Eiffel Tower. Is it a new tourist attraction?’

  The man took the mug of tea, added a careful half teaspoonful of sugar and stirred it thoroughly. ‘May I take a piece of carrot cake too, please?’

  Kath chose the largest slice and laid it onto a paper plate, along with a napkin. ‘That’ll be one and six please, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, it has been a pleasure, Miss Motts,’ he said, handing her the correct change. ‘But now I must join my colleagues. Good day to you both.’

  ‘Whatever were you doing, questioning the man like that?’ her mother hissed, when they were out of earshot. ‘You know quite well they’re not allowed to say anything.’

  ‘How do we know they’re not allowed?’ Kath countered.

  ‘You’ve seen the signs over there. Top secret, and the rest. And you asking if it was a tourist attraction, for goodness’ sake.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘It’s something they don’t want us to ask about and it’s best if you keep your mouth shut from now on, my girl, or you’ll be getting into trouble. Now help me get this lot packed up; I think we’re done for the day.’

  4

  ‘Cripes, what did you make of those yokels! Grown men in nappies – never seen anything like it,’ Frank Wilkinson chortled as they clambered off the ferry. It would be some years before a proper landing stage was built on either side, so for the moment embarking and disembarking carried the risk of getting your feet wet, especially in rougher weather.

  Vic said nothing. He hadn’t really taken to Frank ever since they’d first met at Felixstowe Station. Everyone said he had a brain the size of a planet, but he seemed to have an inflated sense of self-importance to match.

  �
��You go ahead, I’ll catch up later,’ Vic said. He loved to savour the sights and sounds of the walk up the driveway, the resin smell of the pines as you entered the grounds, the wide green swathe of the cricket pitch. He would usually pause on the humpbacked bridge to listen to the tinkle of the stream they called, for some obscure reason, the River Jordan, watching finches flitting about the bulrushes and keeping an eye out for the kingfisher.

  The sight of the Manor coming into view at the top of the slope caught Vic’s breath every time. He’d seen plenty of grand English country houses – his boarding school among them – but this place, a fantastical architectural mix of mock-Tudor, Scottish castle and fairy tale, was the most impressive of the lot.

  On the right of the courtyard was the Red Tower, built in brick with green copper-topped turrets and ornate stonework balconies shimmering in the sunlight. To the left, a second vast tower in white stone with four further turrets was linked to the first by a grand frontage of stone-mullioned windows that spanned the full height of the building, reminiscent of Cambridge colleges.

  At the main entrance, above an imposing porch, was carved the motto of the family who built the place: Plutot mourir que changer. Vic, with his schoolboy Latin, translated it as ‘rather die than change’, which he thought particularly inappropriate for the work they were doing here, these days: creating change which would, they hoped, save lives.

  The afternoon he first arrived, just a month before, had felt positively surreal. The long train journey after a night of little sleep and the meeting with that striking young woman with the flame-red curls; the arthritic old bus that transported them from the station, and the ferryman with a hook where his hand should be. And then his first stunning sight of the Manor. He felt as though he’d entered a world of make-believe, like Alice going down the rabbit hole, and he expected at any moment to wake up and discover that it had all been the oddest dream.

  His astonishment had only increased as they’d entered the building through the heavy oak door and into the wood-panelled hallway, passed through the lounge with French doors and views over the estuary into a great hall with, he’d been cheered to see, an upright piano. Frank had introduced him to a man called Johnnie – tall, older, rather avuncular – who led him up a wide staircase leading to a maze of corridors and rooms on the first floor.

  ‘This’ll be your room, Mr Mackensie. Fifty-four. Not the most luxurious of accommodation but no doubt you’ll be used to it after Cambridge. Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s thataway. Tea’s at four in the Green Lounge. Can you remember how to get there?’

  Vic nodded, though he wasn’t at all certain. It would be easy to get lost in this place. He unlocked the door and peered into the cell-like room. This must have been part of the servants’ quarters, and the lowliest servants at that. It was a curious shape, rather dark, with two narrow windows high in the walls, furnished with a cheap plywood chest of drawers and wardrobe, two chairs and two double-tiered metal bunk beds. There was no sign of other belongings, so he assumed – and hoped – that he might actually have the room to himself.

  After making up the bed he lay back and tried to gather his thoughts. It had been a whirlwind few weeks: the interview with a couple of stern fellows in an anonymous Whitehall building seemed to go well, and even though he’d barely understood the purpose of their questions he had tried to answer them as honestly as possible. Then, almost by return, came a letter of acceptance with instructions to use his travel warrant on a certain date and a specific train. He looked up Felixstowe on the map and discovered that it was practically the most easterly point of the British Isles, right on the coast and miles from anywhere. Whatever could Watson-Watt and his team be doing in such a remote place?

  Now here he was, but still with only the vaguest notion of what it was all about. No doubt he would get a briefing later today, or perhaps tomorrow, and all would become clear.

  The clanging of a distant gong roused him from a deep sleep. Then he remembered: he was at Bawdsey Manor and the sound must be the summons for tea. His mouth began to water: he’d eaten nothing since breakfast in Cambridge that morning. Turning the wrong way out of his room, he quickly became lost in a maze of anonymous corridors lined with closed doors that all looked the same.

  At last he found a heavy oak door, different from the rest and slightly ajar. Gingerly pushing it open, he found himself on a balcony overlooking the grand panelled hall with the ornate plastered ceiling. He hadn’t noticed the balcony from below, but remembered a similar structure at school, where student string quartets scraped away tunelessly for special events. The musicians’ gallery, that was what they’d called it.

  Unseen below, he could hear voices and laughter. The sound of cups clinking and the tinkle of teaspoons only served to intensify his hunger and thirst. But how to get down there? He followed a short corridor that led to another door, also ajar, through which he was astonished to discover the most sumptuous billiards room he’d ever seen: oak-panelled and lined with raised benches upholstered in green-buttoned leather. On the walls were racks of cues and scoreboards in brass and gilded lettering, and in the centre of the room was the baize table, over which green glass lampshades hung from the ceiling. It was the sort of place where gentlemen of a certain class would retire after dinner, clutching their glasses of port and expensive cigars; the sort of place that made Vic feel even more acutely like an outsider.

  The only other door out of this room opened into a small snug with an oversized stone fireplace, where no doubt the gentlemen would retire when they wearied of the game. Apart from that the only exit was a wide French window leading out onto a few steps and a lawn, beyond which Vic could see nothing but grey sky melting into an equally grey sea.

  He’d thought he was on the first-floor level, so this was obviously a raised part of the garden. Sure enough, he discovered a set of steps leading downwards and through a stonework grotto onto a further lawn. At last, he turned a corner onto a terrace with the most spectacular view southwards over the mouth of the river, towards the distant town of Felixstowe. A group of men were sitting at a table in the sunshine, taking tea.

  As he approached they looked up with the double-take expressions he’d come to expect from strangers. But at least they all managed to smile.

  ‘Mr Mackensie! Made it at last, old boy. Best view in town, ain’t it? Come and join us. We might be able to squeeze the pot,’ Johnnie said, leading Vic into an enormous room carpeted and furnished in various gloomy shades of green. On an oval table, several crumb-spotted plates attested to the feast he’d missed. A single piece of fruit cake remained. From the teapot emerged a dribble of molasses-black liquid glistening with scum.

  ‘Sorry about the cake. Shall I call for more hot water?’

  ‘It’ll be fine with milk and sugar,’ Vic lied. ‘I could drink anything right now.’

  As they returned outside, Johnnie announced: ‘Listen up, chaps: this is Mr Mackensie, who has just joined us from Cambridge University, no less.’ A murmur of approval.

  They seemed to fall into two types. Some looked like standard academics, dressed in scruffy suits or tweed jackets over shirts and ties, and wearing spectacles. At least he looked the part well enough, he thought. Others were more practical-looking chaps in khaki overalls or jumpers over plain trousers. But no one gave any hint of what they were doing or why they were here, and although he was burning to ask, Vic remembered the fearsome declaration of confidentiality he’d been required to sign, in triplicate. Any breach might result in a prison sentence of up to seven years.

  After a flurry of introductions the conversation turned to everyday matters: the weather forecast, the temperature of the sea – he gathered with some alarm that some of them enjoyed immersing themselves in it when the tides were right – and what the cooks were boiling up for supper.

  ‘Saw some veggies and a side of lamb going in the kitchen door this afternoon,’ one said.

  ‘Sounds promising.’

  ‘Don�
�t matter what they start with, they’ll destroy it. We’ll end up with the same bland mush as usual,’ Frank muttered.

  ‘Don’t listen to Eeyore here. The food’s not that bad.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast,’ Vic admitted. ‘I’m so hungry I could probably eat a donkey.’

  ‘You might have to.’

  ‘Where do you come from, Mackensie?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I’ve just travelled from Cambridge today.’

  ‘I mean, where do you really come from?’

  ‘I was born in India, but my father is British, and I have been here since I was eight.’ It was his usual answer, and he steeled himself for what usually came next. Answering would be painful, but at least it usually stopped the interrogation.

  ‘Is your mother Indian, then?’

  ‘Was. She died four years ago.’

  There was a murmur of sympathy around the table. ‘So sorry to hear that, old chap,’ Johnnie said.

  He was saved from further questions by the arrival of Robert Watson-Watt. All, to a man, pushed back their chairs and stood in deference. Vic was struck once more by his powerful presence: the genial air, the breezy smile and apparent informality of his bearing clearly concealing a strong sense of purpose. An impatient man, certainly, and nothing about him would happen by chance.

  ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake, there’s no need for all that, chaps. Good cake?’

  Frank – who seemed to be the leader in most things – offered to go for more.

  ‘Och, don’t be bothering them. They brought some to my office earlier,’ he said. ‘Now, where’s my new fellow?’ He glanced around. ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Mackensie. Found us all right?’