by Liz Trenow
‘Naanyi’s soul has reached the afterlife,’ his mother had said, as though that explained everything.
When, later, she’d stopped crying, he’d plucked up the courage to ask, ‘What is the afterlife, Mother?’
‘It’s where our souls go when we die,’ she’d said, tousling his hair in that way he hated.
‘Is it nice there?’
‘It is wonderful. Better than here on earth.’
The little village church in Petersfield was already filled to bursting. Johnnie must have been much loved. However much Vic wished that his friend was actually enjoying himself surrounded by angels on some blissful cloud, the sight of the coffin borne on the shoulders of six strong men, followed by his weeping wife and children, soon dispelled the vision. Inside that wooden box were the remains of a man who’d meant so much to people here on earth. How could he possibly be happy in heaven, when his passing had caused such sadness?
The words of the service were strange to his ears. As the vicar beseeched, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ he could hear Johnnie muttering Search me, mate, and had to conceal his smile in a handkerchief, which earned him a comforting squeeze on the arm from his neighbour. It felt even more bizarre when they all followed the coffin out into the churchyard – in silence, no wailing women here – and gathered round to watch it being lowered into a deep, straight-sided hole. The vicar began to intone once more: ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.’
Not much consolation there, old friend, he thought to himself.
Lizzie and the children were each invited to throw a handful of earth. The process struck him as somehow primitive, and made him shudder. On balance, he preferred his mother’s version of death. He slipped discreetly behind a tree, waiting for the right moment to pay his respects to Lizzie before heading back to the train station.
It was the boy who saw him first. In just a few months he’d grown into a young man bearing a disturbing resemblance to his father. ‘It’s Vikram, isn’t it?’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Dad’s friend from work? I’m Christopher.’
Yes, I am Vikram. The man who may have caused your father’s death. ‘You’ve got a good memory, Christopher. When I came to visit, you kindly lent me your bedroom.’
‘Come and say hello to Mum. She’ll be pleased to see you.’
Lizzie was still surrounded by solicitous women in large hats, but as they approached she looked up with a brave smile, her face pale with strain. ‘Mr Mackensie, how kind of you to come all this way.’
‘Johnnie was such a good friend to me, Mrs Palmer.’
‘You must come back to the house for tea and sandwiches, if you have the time?’
The little cottage was filled with people who all seemed to know each other, talking at the tops of their voices. Vic escaped to the garden with his cup of tea, wondering how soon he could politely slip away, and how he would get back to the station from here. Christopher approached, joining him on the mossy wall.
‘Phew. It’s quieter out here.’
‘You okay?’ Vic asked.
‘Will be once they’ve all gone,’ the boy said. ‘Can’t stand all this hugging business.’
‘They’re doing their best to show they care about you, and about your father.’
‘S’pose so.’
They paused, listening to a bird in the tree above them. ‘Is that a blackbird?’
‘A robin, I think.’
‘Your father was good at birds. He taught me the difference between seagulls and terns.’
‘He was good at lots of things.’
‘That’s true. He was a great man, Christopher, very kind and very clever, two virtues that don’t usually go together.’ The boy’s gaze dropped to the ground, and Vic feared he might cry. ‘I’m so sorry. I always say the wrong thing.’
‘It’s all right.’ A longer pause. ‘He liked you too, you know? He told us you were the cleverest person he’d ever met, and that working with you sort of made up for being away from us for so long, and what you were doing together would make our country safer. He said that your inventions were going to protect us, to make sure me and Beth had a free country to live in, and that was why it was so vital and why we had to forgive him for not being here much.’
‘I am very touched, Christopher. Thank you.’
‘You will carry on, won’t you? Even though he’s gone?’
‘It’ll be much harder without your father, but I’ll do my best.’
How could he not carry on, with these expectations behind him? Johnnie’s precious boy, who would, please God, never be old enough to fight, was depending on him. This brief conversation had reminded him why the work was so important. Thank heavens Dr Rowe’s spilled tea had spoiled his resignation letter.
He didn’t want to give up, after all.
When he got back to Bawdsey he learned the inquiry had concluded that the cause of the crash was a catastrophic failure of the airframe. The IFF fixings had been ruled out as a cause. The plane had literally broken up in the air and plunged into the sea. Nothing, not even the skill and experience of Captain Burrows, could have saved them.
He ran to his room and lay on Johnnie’s bed, weeping with relief and loneliness. But not for long: there was a knock on the door, and Scott calling: ‘Mac, are you in there? Shake a leg. The boss wants a briefing, right now.’ Vic washed his face in cold water and dashed down to find seven men already in the office: both the IFF research teams, including Frank Wilkinson.
‘Listen up, chaps. We’ve given up on the Sudetenland, and whatever that joker Chamberlain says, we can be sure our friend Mr Hitler will be rubbing his hands with glee. He won’t stop there. It’ll be Belgium next, and then he’ll be right on our doorstep. There is much to do and so little time to do it. IFF is a key part of our defences, and you fellows here are among the best brains in the country. The system developed by Mr Mackensie and his late partner Mr Palmer proved its credentials at the trial a few weeks ago, but to make it work for larger numbers we need elements of the powered transmitter being trialled by Mr Wilkinson’s team’ – he nodded towards Frank – ‘so I suggest you work together to refine it.’
Scott caught Vic’s glance with the slightest of raised eyebrows. Vic shuddered inwardly as he saw Frank’s face lit with triumph. It was a look he’d often seen on the face of Tomkins, the bully of the class at school, for whom Vic was the usual target. But one day, it had turned out differently.
Tomkins had wrestled him to the ground. ‘Eat the earth, Mackensie. That’s all your kind are good for.’ The boy was straddling him, pressing down on the back of his head so that his face was mashed into the grass. Another shove. ‘Go on, eat it.’
The boy was just too heavy, too strong, trapping him to the ground. But as he struggled, he realised his legs were free. If he kicked his feet backwards, hard enough . . . He tried it once and failed, earning himself another punch. He tried again, harder, higher, whipping up his heels as fast as he could. They met something soft. Tomkins groaned and fell to the ground, writhing and clutching his crotch.
‘You little bastard, Mackensie. I’ll get you for this,’ he shouted, as Vic ran for it. But he never did. And there was no more bullying.
Working with Frank, there would be two choices: eat dirt, or kick him where it hurt.
Numbers of RAF staff at the Manor grew even further. The training school for RDF – radio direction finding – operators was expanding fast. Until now most of the new trainees had been men, but before he left Robert Watson-Watt had recruited three women from the secretarial staff. Although all the men had been sceptical, the women had quickly proved excellent at the task, being both meticulously precise and also patient with the delicate fine-tuning required.
As more women arrived, the atmosphere at the Manor subtly shifted. Sunday evening variety shows were replaced with dances, and Frank, who fancied himself a ladies’ ma
n, never missed the opportunity to brag about his conquests each Monday morning. Although, superficially, the two teams had begun to work well together, Vic could sense tensions growing.
It was Scott who mentioned it first. He’d overheard some of the girls complaining about Frank’s ‘sleazy’ ways – the very word they’d used – and had suggested a plan for ‘bringing him down a peg or two’. At first Vic flatly refused – the combination of music, dancing and having to make conversation with girls was his idea of hell – but following a bad-tempered team meeting at which Frank was being particularly odious, he reluctantly agreed.
Good on you, Mac. Tame that snake before he bites, Johnnie whispered.
That following Sunday he dressed in his best suit – great heavens, if you could see me now, Johnnie boy – and joined Scott in the bar for a couple of stiff whiskies before following the sound of jazz being played at top volume on a wind-up gramophone in the main hall. Vic had never witnessed such a scene before: fully a hundred people, men and women, jiggling about on the dance floor, doing strange things with their arms and legs. It terrified him. The touch of Scott’s hand on his back propelled him forward. At the centre was Frank, showing off his best moves, encircled by ten or twelve of the most glamorous girls fawning over him, giggling and dancing suggestively. He was revelling in the attention.
As soon as Vic and Scott appeared those same girls shrieked with apparent delight, abandoning Frank. Vic was led into the centre of the dance floor. Following their instructions, he began awkwardly to move his feet and arms about, taking the hand of one girl then being twirled along to another, while the others called out encouragingly; ‘Ooh Vic Mackensie, what a smooth operator,’ one proclaimed. ‘Doesn’t he just make a girl swoon?’ another said, and ‘Where have you been hiding, handsome?’ Plentiful kisses were planted on his cheeks, the whisky warmed his stomach and his feet felt as though they were gliding all by themselves. It was like a crazy dream, and after a few moments he realised that he was actually enjoying himself.
From the corner of his eye, he spied Frank sloping away from the dance floor. When he’d gone, Scott gave the thumbs up.
‘You certainly proved a hit with the girls last night,’ Frank said in a tone of new respect the following morning. ‘You’ll have to let the rest of us into your secret.’ Vic and Scott exchanged triumphant glances. Never again did Frank brag about his conquests.
But the professional rivalry continued; in fact, it seemed to worsen as the weeks went by. Vic would see Frank at the bar, standing rounds of drinks for the rest of the team, obviously trying to buy their loyalty. And it seemed to work – whenever there was a dispute about the direction in which to take the research next, Vic’s opinion was often sidelined. His sole supporter was Scotty.
That was what had happened a couple of weeks previously. Frank and the others had been determined to follow a particular route. Vic had disagreed, but was outvoted. Since then the project had become completely bogged down. Whatever they tried, they could not make the system work.
Then Dr Rowe announced that he would be visiting in two days’ time, ‘just to see how you fellows are getting on.’
Frank was clearly rattled. ‘Right, let’s get to it, chaps. We’ve got to get this effing thing right, or we’ll be for the high jump,’ he said. But despite long hours of recalculation and recalibrations, they couldn’t make the system operate consistently. Vic tried once more to suggest that they try his original proposal, but once again Frank dismissed it. ‘It’s too late, Mac. No time.’
Later, as he trudged despondently through the gardens, barely noticing the drizzle soaking through his clothes as he struggled to find a way of turning the problem round, Vic heard a familiar voice. Remember what you told me about the gardener who used to check your bungalow for snakes? Never approach from the front, he said. It’ll rear up and strike. The best way of snaring a snake is to take it unawares and grasp it behind the head, where it can’t reach you.
Vic almost wept with relief. Of course. Thanks, Johnnie. Now he knew exactly what to do.
Late into the night he worked on the problem. Taking his own starting point, he recalculated the mathematical model and concluded once more that he’d been right. Yes, it would work.
The following evening he confided in Scotty, and the two of them returned to the lab after supper to build a completely new version of the system. As dawn rose they tested it, and it worked. From the outside, the equipment was indistinguishable from the faulty kit, which they hid away in a cupboard, leaving theirs on the bench.
An hour later, Frank and the rest of the team arrived in the lab, accompanied by Dr Rowe. ‘Right, chaps. Tell me how far you’ve got with this little baby.’
Frank looked uncomfortable, his eyes casting around the room for support.
‘Well, man? What is it?’
‘We’ve been having a little difficulty . . .’
Dr Rowe huffed irritably. ‘Show me how far you’ve got, then.’
Frank plugged the system into the mains and began to explain how the test should work, the test that had so far failed each time. ‘You see, sir . . .’ he began.
‘For Christ’s sake man, just get on with it,’ Rowe snapped.
Sweat broke out on Frank’s brow and his hands trembled as he turned the system on. The line on the screen flickered into life. ‘Operate friendly craft signal,’ he said, flicking another switch. This was the moment when the line should start to show a deep double V that would be clearly visible on the screens installed into other Allied forces’ planes nearby.
After a few seconds the line quivered and took a sharp downward dive, and then another. The ‘friend or foe’ signal was clear for all to see. Frank’s mouth gaped open for several seconds before recomposing into a triumphant grin as the room erupted in spontaneous applause.
Dr Rowe was circling the room, shaking hands with everyone. ‘Good work, chaps. Soon be ready for testing in the field, then?’
After he’d gone, Frank took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘That was a stroke of luck.’
‘Not luck, Frank,’ Vic said, his heart hammering in his chest. This was the moment of confrontation, and he had no idea how Frank would respond. He went to the cupboard, opening the door. ‘This is the old kit. The set on the table, the one that works, is ours, reconfigured and recalibrated by Scott and me to the mathematical model that you dismissed when we suggested it two weeks ago.’
He would remember for a very long time afterwards the expression of utter astonishment and shock on Frank’s face. The man began to bluster, but it was too late. Everyone ignored him, gathering around Vic as he unfolded several sheets of paper showing his calculations.
‘You’re an effing genius, Mac,’ one said.
Much later that evening, just as he was preparing for bed, there was a knock on Vic’s door. It was Frank.
‘I’ve come to thank you, Mac,’ he said. ‘For saving our bloody bacon. Can I buy you a drink?’
The gall of the man, trying to buy his favour with a drink. ‘It’s been a long day, so not for me, thank you.’
‘No hard feelings?’
This was the moment Vic had been waiting for – his opportunity to tame the snake forever.
‘Only on three conditions,’ he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘Firstly, you have to listen to other people’s views as well as your own, in future.’
Frank ventured a conciliatory smile. ‘Point taken, old man.’
Vic pressed on. ‘Second. You never, ever dare to question my loyalty to this country.’
The smile disappeared.
‘And third, if I ever, ever hear you suggesting that I was anything to do with that leak . . .’
A long moment passed. Vic felt his fury rising.
‘Look at me, man, if you’ve got the guts. Look me in the eye and swear you will never say anything against me or try to ruin my reputation, ever again.’
Frank took a breath a
nd cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that . . .’
‘No excuses. I want an apology. Here. Now.’ Vic’s legs were shaking. He’d never been so angry.
Frank began to mutter. ‘Everyone knows you’re so bloody brilliant, I thought nothing could touch you. I was jealous, I suppose . . .’
‘You’re a grown man, Frank. Time to start acting like one.’
At last Frank looked up. Green eyes met brown for a long moment.
‘You’re right, mate. I’m sorry.’
Vic took a deep breath, blinking away the tears of relief that had unaccountably, embarrassingly, begun to flood his eyes. ‘Okay. You give me your word? If you don’t, I’ll spill the beans to Rowe about that test you so “successfully demonstrated” today.’
Frank nodded and held out his hand.
After a second, Vic reciprocated.
The spirit of co-operation in the team improved beyond all recognition. Within a few months they had developed a new, compact ‘powered’ system, ready for testing. A trial at RAF Martlesham proved successful. Immediately they began work on Mark II and Mark III versions. ‘Identification, Friend or Foe’ was ready for installation in all RAF aircraft.
As they read in the newspapers about pogroms against Jewish people and the thousands of shops and synagogues that were smashed, looted and burned, the prospect of war seemed to become even more real. Although the violence was attributed to ‘right-wing thugs’, no one doubted that it was sanctioned by Hitler. And how could anyone expect such a man to abide by the terms of the so-called ‘peace with honour’ enshrined in the Munich Agreement?
‘Not worth the paper the bloody thing’s printed on,’ Vic’s father muttered over Christmas dinner. Aunt Vera, although still gaunt, had recovered sufficiently from her unspecified disease to cook the festive meal this year. ‘I hope you clever chaps get that death ray machine working damned soon, or we’ll be in for it.’
