by Hall, Ian
It was ten o’clock by the time Mrs. Baird and I walked to Russell Square tube station on the Piccadilly Line. I could hardly believe our new look, considerably dressed down from our Ritz garb. Bob and Mrs. Frank had given us superb directions and a package of sandwiches. I knew they were just butter and jam, but we thanked her and forced a fiver into Mrs. Frank’s hand. Alice was almost in tears at the parting after knowing her for just a few hours.
We got our papers checked at Russell Square, but the examination was hardly more than cursory, far less than Bob insisted was going on at Kings Cross. When our tube pulled into the larger station, I saw more German uniforms on the platform than civilians. Luckily their attention was on people approaching the trains, not those already aboard. I thanked our good fortune and spent the rest of our short journey looking out the grubby window.
We got off at Finsbury Park, and changed platforms to the main line north. At eleven fifteen, we boarded a train for Sheffield, and got off at Peterborough, as Bob had suggested.
At the ticket office, we were informed that no Edinburgh trains had made it out of London so far that day, but we could get as far north as York with little trouble.
We spent the night in the Cathedral city, and purchased a small case for the new clothes we’d bought; the stuff from Bob had been rather tawdry, and we both agreed to do a little shopping before retiring for the night.
‘Sunday Service’ was a phrase much used the next day at York station to blame the lack of trains through the town, but we did get tickets for the Edinburgh Express that passed through at one o’clock. Our tickets, however, did not guarantee us seats, and I stood until Newcastle, a good ninety minutes.
I never thought I’d be so glad to see Auld Reekie again. Arthur’s Seat was visible for miles, and even Edinburgh Castle with its gory German swastikas looked warm and comforting.
I had a pint in the Station Bar, and another at the Guildford Arms at the top of the Waverley Steps. I was both relieved to be home, but also had to face mum. I had no real reason to be nervous, but after sleeping with my wife for over a week, I was reticent to go back to the old ways of separate rooms.
Eventually my mood spilled over. “What do you think is waiting for us at the apartment?”
Alice’s face fell. “Oh, you’ve been thinking about that too, huh?”
“Nothing else for the last hour or so.”
To my surprise, she downed the rest of her drink in one go, slammed the glass onto the bar table, and stood up sharply. “Well, it looks like this is the way to find out!”
Of course, she was right. I had a fair sup of my half-filled pint, and left the dregs.
Trams were less frequent on Sundays, but we caught what must have been one of the last ones, a number eleven, and got off ten minutes later.
It was difficult to make no noise in the large square shaft that was the internal staircase, as every foot shuffle and every word carried and reverberated up into the darkness above. It came as no surprise to me when mum opened the door before we’d got our keys ready.
“Come in!” she fussed, and motioned us past her. “Come on, tell us all about it!”
Frances appeared from her room, clapping her hands together in front of her face excitedly. We all gathered at the kitchen table, where mum put the kettle on, and we started the story of our adventures in London.
Well, our romantic, tourist adventures.
When we’d done, both mum and Frances rose, exchanging glances. “Come on,” Mum said, smiling broadly. “Come see what we’ve done.”
What they ‘had done’ was move all of Alice’s and my stuff into the sitting room, the room that I’d been dossing down in since Alice’s arrival. In place of my mattress on the floor sat a large double bed, all made out with a new quilt. The furniture too had changed, the room contained Alice’s bedside table, and my old chest of drawers. Gone were the two seater couch and an armchair to make room for the new transformation.
I could hardly believe it.
My head was just getting round the fact that I was going to sleep with Alice that night when I realized Frances was still jumping. “What?” I said mockingly.
“I got your room!” She couldn’t stop bobbing up and down. “I’m still moving in, but I’m almost done. It’s huge, I love it.”
It looked like we’d all gotten our way, and in moving Frances, mum had put a spare room between us and them. I hugged her while I silently congratulated her on her wisdom. Obviously having us making noises next to Frances would have been awkward for both parties concerned.
Mum clasped my hand, and held it softly. “We do have some bad news, however, and we’re not sure if you’ve heard it or not.”
“What?” I looked deep into her eyes which had softened to a smile.
“Hibs got gubbed on Saturday.” She said, nodding her head.
Frances growled. “By Rangers, of course.”
I shrugged, it was hardly good news, but in the grander scheme of being dragged from bombed hotels, it settled into insignificance. “Well that makes the Cup Final next week something of a damp squib.”
“Aye, it sure does.” Mum agreed.
My Grandad Baird had a saying; ‘back to auld claithes an’ porridge’, when he came back from any holiday or trip away. The phrase really took its meaning the next morning. We’d lost all our ‘good’ clothes in London, and even the stuff in our drawers looked shabby in comparison to what we’d wore that night in the Ritz. I’d gone from a nice evening suit to flannels and a sports jacket.
And of course to complete the phrase, mum served porridge for breakfast, a huge gulf from the top hotel’s food.
I determined that we’d change the clothes problem soon; I still had some of my Scotsman pay left, and a few fivers from the Findlay account.
But work came first, and Monday morning in the office hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I put my head down, gathering everyone’s stories, but my heart wasn’t in it. At twelve-thirty I walked to German HQ and presented myself to Möller and went through the motions there too. He obviously knew about our honeymoon, I’d just forgotten to mention London. He was under the impression I’d traveled to Inverness, in completely the other direction. It wasn’t a difficult ruse to pull off; we’d holidayed up there when I was thirteen, and I still remembered the hotel and its surroundings.
It wasn’t until we sat in the Golf tavern that night that I got to the root of my problem. “They’ve taken it away from me.” I said, looking over the top of a new pint.
Alice looked up from her Evening News. “What’s that?”
“The Tree,” I pulled on my Forty Shilling ale and was rewarded by a satisfying belch that only beer can bring. “I haven’t felt right since I came back to Edinburgh. But that’s it; they took the Tree away from me. It was going to be my baby, not a bloody national edition.”
“Then find yourself something else to do.”
I looked up at her, almost going to argue my point, but was met by her smile; her sexy ‘I’m not taking no for an answer’ smile. “I’m going to take you to bed, Missus Baird.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes,” I leaned over the low table. “And I’m going to give you a good spanking.”
It’s amazing how a good roll in the hay can change your mood. I fell asleep instantly and dreamed of Hibs meeting Celtic in the Cup Final.
My euphoria even stretched into the next morning; I met each task with more energy than the day before, and was in far better spirits when I met Captain Möller.
“Are you a betting man, Mr. Baird?” he asked as he handed back our stories. He appeared distracted, and had hardly given the papers more than a cursory examination.
“I have done in the past.” Well, I had placed a bet when we all went to the racing once… a long time ago.
“The racing at Musselburgh is starting again, next Wednesday. I have tickets. Would you like to go?”
I could think of nothing worse but to spend my day in his company, but h
e’d opened up to me, and it was a way into his social life. And getting to know Jerry was part of my job. “Aye, sure, I mean yes, I’d like that, thanks.”
He produced a ticket from his desk drawer. A three inch square of bright blue with gold embossed lettering. Attached was a gold string loop. Fastened to the outside of my jacket, I would have access to all parts of the course.
Musselburgh Races
Wednesday 13th August, 1941.
Doors open 12.00 noon. First race at 2.00pm.
Gold Medal Admission 5/-
I pocketed the ticket, made more sounds of gratitude, then walked away, wondering what Gold Medal could offer that the General Admission would not.
And, of course, when I got back to the office, we put the pile of books into the window, denoting that we had a message.
Balfour met us that evening as we crossed the bridge over the railway station, on our way to Princes Street. “Boss wants to meet. He says you’ve got stuff to discuss.”
So Ivanhoe wanted word on our trip to London. “Aye, probably.”
“He says he wants you to get yourself to the Caledonian; he’s got a room, 107.”
“Now?”
“Yes, ASAP.”
He’d made no effort to keep Alice out of the conversation, so I shrugged my shoulders. “So much for shopping.”
“You go, I’ll spend your money.”
I caught a convenient tram, and soon was at the far end of Princes Street.
The Caledonian Hotel sat above Princes Street rail station and was considered to be the ‘second best hotel’ in Edinburgh after the Balmoral. Yeah, and they really hated that moniker.
I waltzed past reception and up the main staircase, soon finding room 107.
“Come in,” Ivanhoe called after I knocked. “You’ve got a report to make.”
And I told him all about the meeting with Findlay and Gubbins.
“I didn’t think you’d get to keep control,” he said finally. “That idea was so top-hole that I was sure they’d strip you smartish.”
I didn’t need his thoughts on the matter, especially since he looked so cocky on the subject. Then, of course I told him of the Ritz bombing. That got his attention. Then came the invitation to Musselburgh Races; all in all the whole briefing took me an hour to recant.
“I have a mission for you,” he said, satisfied I’d given him all my news. I can’t say I was unhappy about receiving it; my ‘fighting for the cause’ had taken a hit after losing control of The Tree.
“Hit me.”
“Well, we’ve got a bit of a flap on right now, nothing to worry about, but enough for you to know, we’ve got a lot of stuff going down tomorrow.”
“Here? In Edinburgh?”
Ivanhoe shook his head. “No, more all over the country. It’s a reminder to the folks and Jerry that we’re still fighting.”
“And the Ritz bombing?”
“Oh that’s probably connected, but on loose terms. This push tomorrow is to remind Jerry that he can’t let his guard down, even during the week.”
“And my mission?”
“To watch the newspaper reaction to our ‘push’. I need to know what’s going on, and you’re my eyes.”
Brilliant, I was to read newspaper clippings as my patriotic duty. Even though the head wound still ached from time to time, I still craved some action.
A Certain Patriotic Duty
In Edinburgh, the first news spreading around the tram on Thursday morning was the interception of a German staff car near George Street. From the gossip around me I soon had a grasp on the incident; three masked men had approached the car as it arrived at The Bellfield Club on Rose Street. Not exactly a German hangout, but it did have a name as a homosexual meeting place. The men had forced a certain general out of his car, and shot him against the wall.
Seemingly the whitewashed wall with bloodstains and bullet-holes was still there for all to see.
When I got to the office, I could put more flesh on the bones. The general in question was Frantz Von Pettenburg, a high ranking Nazi Party figure, and had personally led retaliation squads against locals in the Edinburgh area; altogether not considered a good-egg by the Scottish people.
Around eleven, news began to trickle in of a disturbance at Turnhouse Airfield, the RAF base now run by German squadrons. People had heard blasts in the early morning around four thirty, and the alarms had gone off immediately afterwards.
At German HQ that lunchtime, security was tightened. I got my papers checked by a familiar soldier, but then questioned at length of the reason for my visit. At the archway, I was escorted to Möller’s room.
“I am sorry for the increased vigilance.” He said immediately after the guard had left.
“I’m sorry too.” I didn’t believe the words, but felt in my role of Nazi sympathizer I should at least be contrite. “Seems there’s been a couple of incidents around town.”
“A couple?” his voice raised above the norm. “There have been five of your so-called ‘incidents’ in my immediate jurisdiction. At least seventeen Germans have been killed in the most brutal of ways. There will be reprisals, Mr. Baird; I can see no other recourse.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart soared with the men who had carried out the actions, yet knew the retaliations against the civilian population would be both swift and numerous.
Möller’s pen worked in concert with his emotions, and I’m afraid the violence dulled the content of the news somewhat.
I walked back along George IV Bridge with more of a spring in my step than I’d felt for a while.
I gave a start when Balfour slipped into step beside me.
“Boss wants to know if you’d heard of the Germans recruiting in Scotland?”
The whole idea seemed absurd. “Why would Scots join the German Army?”
“Oh, there’s hot-heads everywhere. You promise them killing and raping, they’ll join up willingly.” He looked across the wide street, as if looking for a safe time to cross, then took off into traffic without a sign or word of parting. If anyone had witnessed our transaction, they wouldn’t have seen much of anything.
I walked down the Royal Mile with the idea of malicious miscreants gathering to the Nazi banner, then I thought of a few ruffians from my own neck of the woods that would probably fitted the bill.
The Germans probably had a ready force in every country of the world, willing and very able to be cruel bastards for the reward of a little cash to splash around.
When I got back to the office, I phoned my contact at the Times. “Hey, Reggie, Jimmy Baird here, The Scotsman. Have you heard anything of a German recruiting drive amongst the lower ranks in your area?”
“Ah, we did that story a few months back, or one like it, anyway.”
“Got a few details for me? I think it’s happening up here too.”
Seemingly the Schutzstaffel, the SS, had about 30% of its members recruited from foreign fields, and Britain fell under the auspices of the Norland SS Division, along with Scandinavians, and probably the Baltic states soon too. These regiments were still commanded by German officers, but the rank and file, up to sergeant were native to those countries.
“The Romans did this!” I almost swore in the recollection of the fact.
“They did?” It was Reggie Dyer’s turn to receive news.
“Aye, I read about it once for a paper at school; my final year. They recruited amongst the natives, promising them citizenship after 25 years or something; they were called Auxiliaries…” then I dropped the line as I was about to divulge the name of the British leave-behind resistance force.
“Wow, seems like there’s no new news after all.” Seems Reggie already knew.
“Yeah, even the new, obscure names have been used before.”
“I wonder if Churchill realized…” Reggie asked on parting.
“We’ll never know,” I replied, then thanked him and hung up.
I reveled in my new power for a moment, then asked our new Ed
itor, Steve Wilkinson, to ask around the news team. “We’re looking for five separate incidents in the area. So far I only know of two.”
With the rest of the week closing like a lamb, it did nothing to revive me for the cup final. I mean Rangers and Celtic both being Glasgow teams were hardly going to draw much of a reading furor in Edinburgh newspapers. What I did write was a small piece for the Musselburgh Races the next Wednesday. The 3.05 race had been sponsored by The Scotsman, and I knew the bosses would be there.
By Monday morning, however, we still had only uncovered four incidents from the night of violence. “So why did Möller say there had been five?” I asked Steve, the editor.
“Maybe he just got it wrong?”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, that’s not characteristic. He just doesn’t get things wrong.”
“Maybe he was testing you?”
“In what way?”
“To see if you’d print it verbatim.”
“But we…” I shut my mouth quickly, and made an excuse to leave.
I was in Alice’s office in seconds. “What if Möller said ‘five’ incidents, just to see if I’d mention it in the Tree?”
“They don’t suspect you, surely?”
I frowned heavily. “I can’t see how.”
“Unless he knows you were in Carstairs.”
I stopped in my tracks, about to denounce her theory without consideration. If Captain Möller knew I’d been incarcerated in Carstairs, he certainly knew of MacManaman’s involvement. And if he knew that, then MacManaman’s murder a few days after Carstairs exploded would point immediately to me.
“Crap.” I said out loud. “Möller knows I killed MacManaman.”
Alice’s face mirrored my concern. “But if he does, he’s keeping it from the other Germans.”
“Möller hates the Gestapo,” I mused. “In fact, he lied to Major Stegen about my watch.”
“So he’s keeping you away from the Gestapo…” Alice cut herself short, but her expression showed rumblings of trouble.
