by Hall, Ian
“Mr. Murdoch will see you now.”
I rose, and followed him. “Thank you.”
I’d never been in a more grandiose office. Thirty-foot ceiling complete with plaster decoration, huge paintings, all originals, and some of the oldest book-ends I’d ever seen.
Mr. Murdoch rose to greet me from behind the behemoth that he presumably called a ‘desk’; I’d seen smaller houses. “Come in, Mr. Baird, we’ve been expecting you for some time.” His tone managed to be both welcoming and fawning in equal measure.
Yeah, I got holed up in an extermination camp. “Yes,” I crossed the room to meet him. “I’ve been out of town for a couple of weeks.”
We shook hands over the vast surface of his extremely tidy desk. We both had to stretch.
“Ah, well, glad you’re back. Sit down, please.”
Another thousand quid chair. “Thank you,”
“Eh, did Sir Edmund mention any specifics about your account?”
“No. I have an account in Bruntsfield. I take it we’re not talking about that one?”
He smiled quite naturally. “No, I’m referring to the one at this branch. Sir Edmund set up the account on his last visit to the city.”
I shook my head. “In that case I know nothing about it.”
He studied a small passbook in front of him, and a letter on Bank of Scotland headed notepaper. “Well, he had us set up what we call an ‘Artisan’ account, drawn directly on Sir Edmund’s line of credit in our London branch. You, Mr. Baird now have a line of credit here, available at any time. The only stipulation is that you give a written reason for each withdrawal.”
That knocked me back a bit. “What’s the limit on the account?”
Murdoch looked surprised. “Why, Mr. Baird. It is a line of credit, and therefore has no limit.”
“What?” I blurted. “What happens if I want a thousand pounds?” It seemed my imagination had set a limit for me.
“Then we would honor your request.”
Holy strewth and buckets of hellfire. Thoughts sprang to mind of my new project, and how much quicker it would turn into reality with a few quid to grease any rusty cogs. “In that case, I will require a hundred pounds today, please.”
“Certainly.” He pressed a buzzer on the edge of the desk, and I swear the side door opened immediately. A young lady, no more than twenty entered without knocking, coiffured hair, very slick business suit, tidy in every way. “Miss MacDevon, please bring me a hundred pounds please, small bills,” he suddenly turned to me, his face filled with concern. “Small bills, right?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Murdoch began to write in the passbook, then looked up, the happy toadying expression back. “The reason for the withdrawal, Mr. Baird?”
“Can I just cite day-to-day expenses?”
“Certainly, I’m sure that will do for the first time. You may be required to be more forthcoming in the future.”
I could see that. “I will write to Sir Edmund personally and provide more detail.”
His raised eyebrows gave an unbidden sign of surprise. Yes, I did have his personal address. Despite no bad impression on our meeting, I could not help feeling a slight repugnance in Murdoch’s attitude. Too bad; I now had a hundred quid.
First thing? Buy a new watch.
I really missed my old Omega. I’m quite sure MacManaman, the Scottish gestapo I’d shot in the Burke & Hare would have been wearing it, probably stripped from my unconscious body. I regretted not searching his wrist as he bled out in the bar, but stealing it from him would have both given the Germans a clue in my identity, and slowed my escape.
I looked at the large clock on the wall behind Murdoch; three, fifteen. I had plenty of time to visit Cockburn Street and find a suitable timepiece.
My first stop was Brown’s Emporium, but he had nothing in stock to my requirements. He sent me down the street to Abe Millers, a silver dealer, not commonly known for being in the watch trade.
To my surprise, he had hundreds.
But it took my trained eye just a few seconds to locate the only one familiar to me. I picked it up, feeling its weight, knowing its crocodile strap.
“Twenty,” the assistant said.
I shook my head, putting it on my wrist, the strap fitting snugly.
“It’s an Omega…”
“I know.” I raised my hand. “I want to know where it came from.”
“Oh, sir, we get watches from many places.”
“You see,” I began, “It’s mine, stolen from me. I want to speak to the proprietor, thank you very much.”
A thick red curtain to the back shop parted and a small man strode through. He wore glasses with a magnifying eyepiece attached.
“Mr. Miller…” the shopkeeper started.
“It’s okay, Billy, you go out back, have a smoke. I’ll deal with this gentleman.” He waited until he heard the back door close. “How can I help you?”
“This watch,” I lifted my wrist for him to see. “It’s mine, stolen.”
Mr. Miller shook his head. “It might have been yours,” his tone was matter-of-fact. “But now it’s mine, and I mean to sell it.”
It felt good on my wrist, and also stopped my search for a replacement. “Where did you get it?”
“Police,” he admitted candidly. “I buy the lost and found from time to time. This came in yesterday, stuff taken from dead folk.”
Oh. That shook me. I’d just admitted a link from me to a dead person. The scene I’d planned to make in the shop dwindled in seconds. But I still wanted the watch. “How much?”
I expected him to remain firm on his ticket price, but he reached for an old brown notebook, filled with pages of catalogued lines. Being on the last written page, he took no time to find the entry he needed. “Omega, Croc strap. Looks like I paid three quid for it.” He closed the book with a snap, and looked up. “Fiver, it’s yours. If you don’t come up with the cash, you don’t leave the building.”
It certainly was a drop from the initial twenty asked for. I swallowed my pride, handed over the first fiver from the St Andrews Square money, and pissed off smartish.
I had my old watch back.
The Tree of Liberty
I had an idea, yes, but I also had a problem. I wanted to write and print a pirate newspaper, but I also wanted my own built-in believable deniability. I needed a whole lot of distance between me, the source of the news, and the people that printed it. That meant working in cells, in the exact same way that the S.O.E. did things.
I had to contact Lilith, and that meant telling Alice. What a web I was weaving for myself.
“And you need her why precisely?” Alice asked.
We were sat in my bedroom, the last red/orange of a sunset shining in the windows opposite. “Because I need to organize a cell system for the printing.”
“I can do that,” she said, leaning back on the small sofa. “Lilith left it to me inside The Scotsman, I don’t see a problem duplicating the system elsewhere.”
I couldn’t quite get it out of my head that there was something growing between them, animosity, maybe stronger. “So I just hand the first copy to you?”
“No, you hand the stories to me, let me get someone else to write them, and then you edit. Once you’ve edited, you hand them back.”
“I want to write it,” I said, almost peevishly.
“Well, you can’t.” she scolded. “You’ve already told me that Möller knows your style. You simply can’t put your signature on this project in any way.”
Damn it if she wasn’t telling me the truth. I sighed, leaned back, sliding my arm around her shoulders. “I wanted to do everything. I suppose that was a pipe-dream.”
Alice snuggled closer under my embrace. “I’m afraid so, besides you’ve got so much on your plate right now; you don’t need to take on more.”
“But I’d like to put it all together.” I almost felt the whole project falling like dry sand between my fingers.
“And when your f
ingerprint is discovered, and you know it will be, you’ll be jailed, and Veronica and Frances will be without their bread-winner.”
I sat for a moment in silence. “But I can collate, right?”
She fidgeted under my arm, looking up at me. “That’s what you will do. You’ll find the stories to be written, you’ll get the letters, you’ll decide what news is worthy of the news-sheet. You’re the originator, and in normal times you’d be involved up to your elbows… just not now. You’ve got to keep a distance between you and the project.”
I pulled her closer, if that were possible, and settled back onto the cushions. In my head I pictured the scene. Having Alice close by, helped calm me considerably.
In the office the next day, I sketched a rough image of the titling. I gave it to Alice, and two days later, I had it in my hands, the rubber imprint for the printer machine. “How?” I could not form words. She’d gotten it printed on a single foolscap sheet. I felt it looked fantastic, and said so.
“See what delegation can do?” she preened.
I looked up at a face in the door window; Ivanhoe, looking pretty pleased with himself. He knocked quietly, opened the door and stuck his head in. “You two busy?”
I shook my head. “Not particularly,” I gave him the sheet in my hand as he came in and closed the door.
“Ooh, very seventeenth century… very ‘old-time newsletter-ish’. I like it.” He handed it back. “In fact it’s what brings me here today. I passed your ideas up the ladder, and the results have slid back down pretty bloody quickly, I can tell you; looks like the Top Brass is very interested. I’ll be getting my first batch of letters from the troops this week; you’d better be ready to run with this.”
“Well, we’ll be ready, but we need war news from you, anything…”
He held up his hand, an envelope waved between them. “I’ve been authorized to give you this. We’ll try to have new stuff every week, but you may want to hold back on a couple of stories, just in case next week’s dry, you know.”
I nodded. “We do that here too.”
“You’ll also be getting a phone call each week from at least five or six English newspapers; they’ve got your direct number. It’s about time the folks started to hear how the rest of Blighty’s doing.”
I could hardly believe it, the idea was not only off the ground, it was up and flying. I stood, quite proud of my small accomplishment, then I noticed Ivanhoe’s expression; not only had the cat got the cream, it looked like he’d found the source of it too. “What’s going on?”
He reached inside his jacket and gave me a sheet of folded paper. I opened it gingerly, and could hardly believe the typewritten words. It was headlined ‘Winston’s Diary’.
People of Britain, I talk to you from Cairo, Egypt.
The will of the Allied soldiers in North Africa is indomitable. Herr Hitler has thought it so important that he has sent his greatest general to fight us here, Erwin Rommel. I care not of his previous encounters, but look forward to our forthcoming ones. Men from Britain have been joined by forces from around the Commonwealth; Australia, New Zealand, Canada, India, and Nepal.
There are some who do not understand the importance of the task here in North Africa; let me tell you. The Germans are now attacking the two largest oil fields in the world; they need oil to run their war, just like we need oil to wage war against them. The brave soldiers of Russia defend one… in the sands of the desert, we protect the other. The rich oil fields of the Middle East would fuel Hitler’s war for many, many years. It is the oil which supplies our own vast navy. If we fail, and the Nazis take over the desert, they will undoubtedly rule the world.
Nut more than this, they covet our hold on the Suez Canal. This short stretch of water takes six weeks off a journey from the Far East to Europe. This is the jewel in Hitler’s eye.
Do not fear, people of Britain, we have not forgotten you, and we have you in our hearts, uppermost and foremost. But we have a job to do here before we turn our heads elsewhere, and by strength, courage and fortitude, we will have victory!
Sincerely yours
Winston Churchill
I could hardly believe it. For the first issue, we had a message from the Old Man himself.
Ivanhoe pissed off as soon as I’d read the message, and I scooted back to the office to read the text of the news stories. As I read stories of victory in the desert, victories in Norway, sea battles, it came to my mind that I was also holding a personal letter from Winston himself. Hardly small potatoes.
Then the phone rang. “Yes?”
“Hello old chap, Reggie Dyer here, The Times in London.”
By the time Friday came, I had four stories from England worth re-laying, three of Ivanhoe’s stories of the war, and two from the Edinburgh area. I handed them to Alice with some reluctance; probably the last time I’d see them before the sheet was distributed.
I got back to my job, I attended Möller’s desk every lunchtime, I kept my head down, and I listened to Hibernian playing Dunfermline on the radio; they were still in the cup. Live coverage.
By the middle of the next week, I was told the first sheets of The Tree had started to spread around Edinburgh. It took until Friday to see a physical copy, and by then Ivanhoe hadn’t arrived with war news, Churchill’s diary, letters home, nothing.
My telephone call from the Daily Mail didn’t arrive the next week, nor the one from the Times, I’d almost given up on the weekly idea, pushing it to a twice monthly publication, perhaps a more realistic idea anyway.
“I first saw it on Friday.” I said to Alice, still disappointed. “And I was looking out for it.”
“Well, eh, that actually makes my point. It’ll take time to circulate, maybe even going through a couple of reprints. Just be happy to publish volume two when you can.”
She was right, we both knew it.
Hibs would play Aberdeen the next day, and I set my mind to the game, I had tickets for both of us; Alice’s first football match.
We did exactly the same as I’d done three weeks before; we walked every inch to the ground, getting caught up with the swell. On the staggered journey, she matched me, pint for pint, and when we got into the ground, I could tell she was a little unsteady on her feet.
At halftime, they announced there would be meat pies for sale; I almost jumped for joy. They were a shilling each, but I’ll give the planners their due, they had a good stock of them. We stood in the groaning crowd, nibbling the hard crust, then digging our teeth into the soft mince beyond. It was truly a religious experience.
The match was a pot-boiler; one each at halftime, two-two with five minutes to go, then Hibs’ center-forward, Robeson, rounded the keeper and skipped the heavy brown ball into the net. We went wild. In my half-drunken state I fastened onto Alice’s mouth like a leech, and swear I didn’t let go until the referee blew his whistle for full time.
We cheered all over again.
There was no doubt of our eventual destination that evening. We had a fish supper from the chippie in Tollcross, then walked up the hill to the Hotel savoring every bite. With the pies, and the available fish, it sure seemed like rationing would soon be coming to a close. Certainly the fishing boats were back out; my whiting was freshly caught, I could taste it.
We did our half day at the newspaper on Sunday, then headed home, our first glimpse of the apartment since leaving for the football the day before.
Mum didn’t talk much to us, remaining sullen. I let her stew for a while, then gave her a hug from behind, which she didn’t wriggle from. My way of an apology.
I was sitting in my room when the phone went, not an absolutely special occasion, but a relative rarity. I heard mum answer. “Morningside 4591… yes, I’ll get him.”
Being the only ‘him’ in the building, I reached my door before mum knocked, almost colliding with her in the hall. “It’s for you.”
I crossed to the table beside the fireplace, lifting the heavy Bakelite receiver. “Hello?�
�
“James Baird?”
“Yes?”
“Ed Findlay here, London.”
I almost lost my voice. “Sir Edmund, yes, it’s me.” Mum gave me the most astonished of looks, then shot out of the door.
“Look old boy, I have a little gathering I’d like you to attend, here in London. It’s in a week’s time. Do you think you could make it?”
By this time mum had returned with Alice in tow, both looked at me with a myriad of questions in their eyes. “Eh, yes, probably.” I didn’t feel comfortable with asking him for details, yet I’d taken a hundred quid of his money, I owed him something. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
“As usual, it’s hush hush, old bean, sorry. Houses of Parliament, Monday 28th, 9am. Just ask for me.” I could only stammer my agreement before he concluded. “Book yourself into the Ritz, it’s not far, and I’ve got an account. Anything you need, just charge it.”
“Certainly, Sir Edmund,” I found my voice again. “I’ll be there.”
“Good chap, tally-ho.”
“Bye…”
I replaced the phone carefully, took a nearby notepad, and wrote.
The Ritz, Houses of Parliament, Monday 28th, Nine AM.
Standing in silence, both mum and Alice read my words.
“The Ritz!” Alice screamed.
“Parliament?” Mum said in semi-chorus.
And the whole story of Sir Edmund Findlay came out.
“You never told me that part,” Alice chided later.
“Sorry, life just got so flipping busy all of a sudden.”
“That’s okay,” she snuggled close. “I wanna go too.”
I laughed. “Mum would never go for it,” I looked down at her eyes.
“She would if we were on honeymoon.”
I could see her biting her lip. To be honest, I have no idea where the emotion came from, but I leaned down to kiss her, tears streaming onto her face. My hands were holding her cheeks, our tongues dancing around each other. I think it may have been mum’s second or third attempt at clearing her throat; by her tone and the stern expression, it certainly wasn’t the first.
