by Liz Trenow
‘Well done, Ma. When do you start?’
‘Two weeks’ time. As soon as term ends,’ she said. ‘Just think, I’ll have to take the ferry to work every day.’
‘Did they say how long they expected the job to last? Why’s it temporary?’ Pa asked.
‘All they said was, the nature of their work meant they can’t offer a full-time contract to anyone.’
‘The nature of their work, eh?’
Her mother shrugged. ‘Who cares, anyway? I’m just glad they took to me. And I think I’ll like it there. The head chef admitted he was struggling with all the new people arriving.’
‘Just who are these new people, then?’
‘I did try to ask but all I got was this.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘We don’t question, and they don’t tell, he said. It’s all very hush-hush, and you have to sign some kind of secrecy document before you start.’
Kath thought of the horrible grilling she’d received in the guardhouse, and sent up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t notice Ma had the same surname as their suspected spy.
Nancy’s remark caught Kath off guard. ‘Your brother’s still big buddies with that captain, is he?’
‘Yes, I suppose they have become good friends,’ she said. ‘Ray’s helping him apply for pilot training.’
‘Ray, is it? On first-name terms now, are we?’
‘C’mon, girls, chop-chop,’ the manager called.
It was only later, as they were clearing the tables after closing time, that Nancy approached her. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Kath, only I can’t talk about it here. Can I meet you after work?’
‘What about a cuppa down at the pier?’
‘The pier it is, then.’ Nancy picked up the heavy tray and headed back to the kitchen. ‘See you there, six o’clock.’
It was only mid-September, but a sudden cold snap was a reminder that autumn was here. Kath wrapped her coat more tightly around her uniform, walking swiftly to keep warm. The seafront always felt forlorn without its adornment of holidaymakers. Deckchairs were stacked at the side of the promenade, their canvas seats flapping in quiet resignation, the empty beach bleak without crowds of children and their sandcastles, and the bandstand silent save for imagined echoes of music from the summer months.
‘Any chance of a quick cup?’ she called as she approached the tea shack – a converted caravan that would shortly be towed away for winter – where the owner was taking down his signs. His scowl transformed into a smile of recognition.
‘Well, I’ll be damned. You’re Bob Motts’s kid, aren’t you? You’ve grown a bit since I last saw you, but I’d know that head of curls from anywhere. How’s the old boy getting on, then?’
‘My father?’
‘We was on the rails together,’ the man said. ‘Till I retired, that is. Just doing this to eke out me pension. He still there?’
‘Oh yes. Says he needs to keep me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed.’
The man laughed. ‘And that mother of yours? What a catch she was, with that hair. Both keeping well, I hope?’
‘They’re fine, thanks.’
‘Well, give them my regards. Ted Copper. Now, a cuppa, was it? Milk and sugar?’
She’d drunk the tea and Mr Copper had locked up the caravan and departed by the time Nancy appeared.
‘Sorry to be so late,’ she panted.
‘It’s freezing out here. Why the cloak and dagger stuff, Nancy?’
Nancy shook her head. ‘It’s a bit tricky, Kath. I’m not sure how to tell you, to be perfectly honest.’
A chilly gust of wind whistled across the beach. ‘Spit it out, then.’
‘Me and my fella was under there, you know, having a little snog.’ She pointed to the shore end of the pier, where the beach sloped upwards underneath the boardwalk. ‘It’s quite dark under there so we couldn’t be seen and I just happened to look up, taking a breather, and saw two figures approaching. I suppose they thought they couldn’t be seen either. It was Captain Burrows I recognised first, and then I saw it was your brother with him.’
‘Did you say hello?’
‘Gimme a break. We was in the middle of . . . you know?’
Kath always felt such an innocent in Nancy’s company. ‘I suppose they’d been for a drink and were taking some air.’
Nancy looked around, and even though the beach and promenade were deserted, she lowered her voice. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
Kath shook her head.
‘They were properly together. I mean, like holding hands.’
Nancy’s tone was starting to irritate her. ‘I can’t see what’s so wrong with that.’
‘And then . . .’ Nancy hesitated.
‘And then? Go on.’
‘I saw them kissing.’
Kath didn’t want to hear any more. It was the same dizzy feeling she had when the teacher put up one of those unfathomable mathematical equations on the blackboard. None of it made any sense. Nancy must be lying. She began to walk away.
‘Listen, please.’ Nancy trotted alongside her. ‘I didn’t really want to tell you but I don’t want your brother to get into trouble. He needs to stop associating with that man. Do you understand?’
Kath kept on walking.
‘If anyone saw them they could be sent to gaol.’
‘Gaol?’ The word was like a slap in the face. ‘Why?’
Nancy took a deep breath.
‘Captain Burrows is a homo.’
By the time Kath reached home she’d decided that Nancy was deluded or malicious, or both. Her story seemed so unlikely, and everyone knew, because she’d hardly made a secret of it, that she fancied the pants off Captain Burrows. So when he hadn’t asked her for a date – hadn’t called, written or anything – she’d obviously got the hump and decided to get back at him by spreading rumours that he was a . . . Kath found it hard to say the word, even in her head. She had only the barest idea of what it meant, and couldn’t imagine that such a thing really existed.
Of course there were plenty of people who lived with friends of the same sex. Her great-aunt Phyllis was one of them. Her boyfriend had been killed in the last war and now she lived with a sweet lady to whom she referred as her ‘companion’. And men shared digs together, after all. What was wrong with that? But somehow she’d never imagined anything else going on. And certainly not with men like the Captain, who flirted with anything in a skirt, or Mark, who had so many girls calling for him that Ma had once suggested she’d have to put him under lock and key.
No, it was plainly ridiculous. She wouldn’t mention any of it, to anyone. Safer that way.
But as the days went by, she became less certain. What if Nancy decided to spread her nasty rumours more widely? Perhaps she ought to warn her brother, just in case. For a week she vacillated, waiting for the right opportunity.
It was the weekend. Pa was on an extra shift, and Ma was out shopping. Mark was by the back door, rummaging for his Felixstowe Town scarf. He was going to watch the local team play an early-season friendly against their neighbours and fierce rivals, Walton United. There were rumours of a merger between the clubs, so this might be the last match of its kind, he said, and would be sure to draw a good crowd.
‘Got a minute?’ Kath said.
‘Can it wait? I’m meeting the boys for a drink before the match.’
‘Not really.’ Having steeled herself, she wasn’t going to back down now. The longer she waited, the more danger there was that Nancy would start spreading her malice. ‘I just want to ask you something.’
‘Ask away.’ His voice was muffled by coats.
‘No, come in the kitchen.’
He sighed. ‘It’s not that Billy Bishop business again?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’ve been over him for months.’
He sat down, leaning his chair back. ‘Okay. Spit it out, kid.’
She’d rehearsed it in her head so many times, but now they were face to face th
e words refused to come. ‘It’s just something Nancy said . . .’ She faltered.
‘That little minx. Ray says she keeps writing to him, but he’s not interested. Too hot to handle, he says.’ Mark laughed. ‘So what’s she been saying, then?’
‘She says . . . she says . . .’
‘Yes? I’m waiting.’
‘That he’s a . . .’ She swallowed, trying to force her lips into the word. ‘A homo.’
He righted the chair with a thud and leaned forwards towards her, his face just a foot from hers.
‘She said what?’
‘Don’t make me say it again.’
‘Well, whatever she said, it’s a load of effing nonsense.’ He stood up suddenly and began to pace the small space between the table and the door. ‘For heaven’s sake. Ray? I suppose she’s trying to get back at him for ignoring her, the b—’ He turned towards her, cheeks streaked angry red. His fists were clenched and for a brief moment she feared he might be about to hit her. ‘When did she say this, Kath?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Has she told anyone else?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
He began pacing again.
‘So why’s she telling these lies? And why involve you? I suppose it’s because he’s a friend of mine?’
‘That’s the thing, Mark.’
‘What thing?’
She lost courage now. Nancy’s claims seemed even more improbable than before. She began to imagine that she might have simply dreamed them. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘Tell me, Kath. What other poison has your so-called friend been spreading?’
‘She said she saw you with him.’ She found herself whispering now. ‘On the beach. By the pier. Holding hands.’
Mark walked slowly back to the table and sat down, his face a peculiar shade of grey. ‘Listen, kid. It’s a pack of lies. A pack of dangerous lies. You know that, don’t you?’ His voice was low and menacing.
She nodded.
‘I have no idea what her game is, or why she’s doing this. Do you?’
‘Only as you said, to get back at Ray.’
‘Does she know how damaging an allegation like that, however ridiculous, can be for someone in his position? And there’s my application to the RAF just going in . . .’ He swore under his breath and sank his face into his hands.
‘I’m going to stop this, Mark, before it goes any further. I’m going to confront her and tell her to stop telling lies.’
He looked up sharply. ‘No, Kath, don’t say anything to her; it might make it worse. Let me talk to Ray, he’ll know what to do.’ He shook his head, furiously. ‘She’d better watch out, though. He’ll be hopping mad.’
10
Vic was having the time of his life. For six weeks that autumn he and Johnnie visited airfields all across the south of England, taking measurements of different aircraft: bombers, fighters, transport and reconnaissance.
He was glad to be away from the febrile hothouse atmosphere of the labs at Bawdsey. One of the men questioned about the leak had disappeared without trace, but it seemed that Frank had been exonerated and nothing more was said. Vic wished he’d had the courage to challenge him, but feared making things worse. Time had now passed, but his resentment had not. He felt constantly wary, fearful the snake might strike again.
The days grew shorter, the mornings misty. Leaves coloured red, orange and brown, then fell from the trees. Time was pressing on, and ‘Jimmy’ Rowe told each of the two teams he expected ‘workable solutions’ by Christmas, to be tested in the New Year. Frank crowed that his team’s new kit was infinitely superior and nearly ready for use, and they had fully expected to coincide with him at one of their airfield visits, but there was no sign.
‘That man’s all bluff and bluster,’ was Johnnie’s diagnosis. ‘We don’t need to worry about that lot. Just get on with the job in hand.’
The research station lent them a car, a battered old Morris Ten. Johnnie had taught him to drive but Vic usually opted to be navigator, even though his map-reading skills were often tested to the limit; sometimes beyond their limits. Most airfields were quite new and not yet signposted, but getting lost in the lanes of Kent, Sussex or Lincolnshire became part of the fun.
Vic had never seen the English countryside looking so beautiful. The trees still held vestiges of autumn plumage, and bridal veils of white gulls billowed behind the ploughing tractors that turned fields of harvest gold overnight into precise stripes of brown. Johnnie was the best kind of travelling companion: efficient but relaxed, cheerful but not overbearing. He liked a drink, but never to excess. He seemed to enjoy Vic’s company, and showed a friendly curiosity about his Indian origins.
‘Time for the Brits to get out, isn’t it?’ he said at breakfast one day, after reading a newspaper report about the progress of one Mahatma Gandhi.
‘Of course it is. But people fear what will happen when they lose a common enemy.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They would fight among themselves instead. Muslims and Hindus both believe they have the right to rule.’
Johnnie, always curious, wanted to know more about the religious differences, but Vic’s knowledge was cursory and he struggled to explain. Apart from avoiding meat, he’d barely thought about being a Hindu since his mother died. ‘You don’t speak the language and seem to know diddly squat about their religions. I don’t believe you’re Indian at all,’ his friend teased.
‘So they dropped me in a vat of oil when I was born, I suppose?’
‘Don’t be a dolt.’
They stayed in RAF barracks and ate in military messes or, if no beds were available, would take bed and breakfast at local inns, for which they’d been given a modest allowance. After the long months of hard graft, with bosses breathing down their necks expecting results and asking for solutions ‘by yesterday’, the freedom was intoxicating.
Not that they were taking it easy. Their days were busy with visits, taking detailed notes, copying technical drawings and making sketches of their own, the evenings spent writing up their reports and developing potential ways in which the friendliness, or otherwise, of an aircraft could be detected by a radio wave. At night, easing himself into sleep, Vic would recite their names: Blenheim, de Havilland, Handley Page, Avro, Vickers, Fairey, Armstrong. When he finally slept he dreamed of engine sizes, wing lengths and torsion strengths, images of circuit diagrams and the configuration of instrument panels.
One weekend they took a detour to visit Johnnie’s home near Petersfield, on the South Downs. When Vic fretted about not having anything smart to wear, Johnnie just laughed. As soon as they arrived, Vic understood why.
They were greeted by his wife Lizzie, a strong, handsome woman digging up potatoes in a small allotment at the front of a semi-detached Victorian farm cottage. She threw down her spade and ran to Johnnie, smothering him with kisses and smearing his face with earth from her hands, but no one seemed bothered. Two adolescent children emerged and jumped on their father, almost knocking him to the ground and then dragging him indoors, leaving Lizzie and Vic to introduce themselves.
‘Vikram Mackensie.’ He felt awkward, witnessing such effuse expressions of physical affection. ‘I’m sorry to intrude.’
‘Don’t be silly, we love visitors,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘And we’ve heard so much about you, Mac, or should I call you Vikram?’
‘Vic will be fine, but I answer to almost anything. “Here, you” works well.’
Inside, he accepted a mug of tea. The children, a girl and a boy, were talking ten to the dozen to their father, showing off their toys, models and workbooks, leaving Vic time to look around. He’d never seen a room quite so chaotic before: ancient furniture, threadbare carpets, a basket of knitting, a cat nursing kittens in a cardboard box in the corner. Faded watercolours and amateur sketches adorned three walls, and the fourth was covered with books stacked higgledy-piggledy on shelves buckling beneath their weight. Such untid
iness usually left him ill at ease, his fingers twitching to restore order, but here he felt immediately comfortable. This was a real home, a place where people cared little about how they looked to outsiders, or about material possessions.
Lizzie produced a delicious supper of cauliflower cheese with kale and new potatoes freshly dug from her vegetable plot. They washed it down with a couple of bottles of beer, and afterwards she served apple crumble and custard. ‘Johnnie’s favourite,’ she said, with an affectionate glance across the table. He responded with the gesture of a kiss, earning him cries of ‘Oh, cut out the soppy stuff, Dad, pleeease,’ from the children.
Afterwards Johnnie invited Vic to ‘play for his supper’, clearing a pile of newspapers, clothes and a cat basket to reveal a dusty upright piano. Despite a few stuck keys and a general lack of tuning, he managed to stumble through a few ragtime numbers. Lizzie and the children danced and cheered when he finished, with calls of ‘encore, encore,’ to which of course he obliged. How could he refuse, when it clearly brought such joy? This is how family life should be, Vic thought to himself, not the stilted conversation in the overstuffed drawing room at his aunt’s, nor the stifling propriety at the home of his school friend Kenny. His own life seemed so empty, so barren, and his head ached with envy.
When it came time for bed, Johnnie led him upstairs to what was clearly the son’s bedroom. ‘The boy’ll be fine on Beth’s floor,’ he said when Vic protested. Left alone, he looked around, instantly overwhelmed with nostalgia. Toy trains, lead soldiers, a half-built Meccano crane, piles of comics, and books with titles like Fun for Boys transported him immediately back to his bedroom in India. He could even hear the mournful descending scale of the coucal bird and the harsh alarm calls of the parakeets that massed in the trees behind the bungalow, and smell the sandalwood incense his mother burned each day when preparing her puja.
