by Ellie Dean
‘I’ll get my chap to look at it, but I can’t promise anything.’ His grey eyes regarded her. ‘Got away all right, did she? No last-minute hitches or nerves?’
‘She didn’t say much on the journey and I could tell she was tense, but when I suddenly asked her a question in French she didn’t bat an eyelid and replied fluently.’ She reached for the decanter of whisky which she always kept on top of the filing cabinet. ‘Your usual, Hugh?’
‘Thank you, Dolly, yes.’ He opened his silver cigarette case and offered it to her before selecting a black Sobranie, which he carefully threaded into a short ivory holder. Lighting both cigarettes, he sat back and watched her pour the drinks. ‘I must say,’ he murmured, ‘you do look well considering that long drive. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Thank you, Hugh. You always say the sweetest things.’
Dolly smiled at him as she handed him the cut crystal glass and an ashtray before settling into the other chair. She’d known Hugh for years and although he was a wily silver fox, she respected and admired him for his life’s dedication to serving his country as ambassador and now behind the scenes at the Home Office. They’d met at a British Embassy party in Paris back in 1912 and although he was a confirmed bachelor there had been an instant spark between them and they’d remained close friends and confidants ever since.
‘It’s good to have you back, Dolly,’ he said, gazing at her appreciatively. ‘This place is horribly dull without you, and Robert and I miss you at our little soirées.’
‘I’ve missed being here,’ she admitted. ‘There’s nothing like the buzz of London to lift one’s spirits, is there?’ She sipped the whisky and then grinned mischievously at him. ‘So, what’s been happening since I’ve been at Bletchley? Any delicious scandal I should know about?’
‘Nothing to write home about,’ he replied, his expression suddenly solemn as he placed his empty glass on the desk. ‘Look, Dolly, I realise you must be tired after that ghastly drive from Bletchley, but there is something I need to say before we part company this evening.’
She eyed him sharply and noted that he was looking rather uncomfortable for once, as if he was weighing his words before he spoke again. ‘What is it, Hugh?’ she prompted warily.
His long, pale fingers brushed at an invisible speck on his beautifully cut suit jacket. ‘With this American thing about to go on down in Devon, I just wanted to reassure you that Carol will come to no harm.’
Dolly stared at him in bewilderment. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Hugh. What thing in Devon? And why would my Carol be in any danger?’
‘Oh, my dear, I am sorry,’ he said hastily. ‘I thought you’d have heard about it on the jungle drums which seem to be a constant presence in this place.’
‘I’ve been at Bletchley for the past three weeks and out of touch with everyone,’ she reminded him, her hand trembling as she stubbed out the cigarette and eyed Carol’s unopened letters. ‘You’d better tell me what this is all about.’
He sat forward and clasped her hand. ‘As you and the rest of the world know,’ he said quietly, ‘Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin met last month. However, the decisions made at that conference are top secret, Dolly, so it goes no further than this room.’
She nodded, unable to speak for the fear trapped in her throat.
‘The leaders agreed to launch an invasion into Europe sometime in 1944, but Eisenhower was concerned that the thousands of young Americans drafted into the army lacked experience of beachhead landings and exposure to real battle conditions under fire. To this end, thousands of raw recruits are being sent down to Slapton, and the training exercises will take place over the next six months or so.’
Dolly was bewildered. ‘But why Slapton when there’s Dartmoor right on the doorstep? And why should some army exercise concern Carol?’
‘There are no beachheads on Dartmoor,’ he replied dryly. ‘And that part of the Devon coastline is very similar to the Normandy beaches where the Americans are proposing to land – but that too must be kept under your very fetching little hat.’
She gripped his fingers. ‘And my daughter?’
‘She and everyone else will be evacuated out of the requisitioned area. But once the exercises are over and the land is cleared of ordnance, they’ll be allowed to return.’ Clearly reading the doubt in her expression, he leaned closer. ‘Carol will be quite safe, Dolly. I suspect she’ll move to the farm where she works, which very fortunately is outside the restricted zone.’
‘I know where it is,’ she said hoarsely, retrieving her hand to lay it on the unopened letters. ‘I visited there when I went down for that awful funeral.’
‘So you’ll know that although the conditions are rather basic she’ll have other girls for company, which might do her some good. It can’t be healthy grieving alone.’
‘She wanted it that way,’ said Dolly on a sigh. ‘I offered to stay after the funeral, but I could see I was getting on her nerves by fussing over her. Perhaps you’re right, though – the move away from that house and churchyard could do her good, even though it will be the most awful wrench.’
She looked into his eyes and saw something there that chilled her. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she managed.
‘Nothing you have to worry about, Dolly, I assure you.’ He rose from his chair and helped himself to another whisky.
His reply was too glib, his demeanour too evasive for her to believe him. She regarded him for a long moment, her thoughts whirling before the answer came to her in all its shocking clarity. She left her chair and put her hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look her in the eye. ‘He’s back in England, isn’t he?’
Hugh nodded reluctantly. ‘He’s the only man Ike would trust to liaise with on the project, Dolly. I’m sorry, my dear. I really didn’t want you to know.’
Dolly’s pulse was racing. ‘Is he already down there?’
Hugh swallowed the whisky in one gulp. ‘He’s staying at the American Embassy for the moment, but I suspect that once the groundwork is done and the exercises begin, he’ll move down to Devon.’
Dolly finished her own whisky. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ she said lightly to mask the inner turmoil. ‘Thanks for telling me, Hugh. It would have been ghastly to bump into him at some party unprepared.’ She pulled on her coat, her fingers unusually clumsy.
He drew the wonderfully soft mink about her shoulders and kissed her hand. ‘Don’t let his presence here rattle you, Dolly,’ he murmured. ‘He won’t be in London for very long, and once his business down in Devon is concluded, he’ll be going back to America.’
Dolly kissed his cheek and swiftly turned to gather up her things and stuff the unopened letters into her handbag. Hugh might be one of her closest friends, but he didn’t know all her secrets, so it was impossible for him to realise how deeply she’d been affected by this latest bombshell.
They parted on the front steps; Hugh to his well-appointed apartment in Sloane Square, and Dolly to the service flat provided by the Home Office, around the corner from the Baker Street office.
Upon gaining the austerely furnished, chilly rooms on the third floor of the Victorian villa, Dolly didn’t bother to switch on the light. She dropped her bags onto the bed and walked across to the window to stare out over the rooftops towards the American Embassy.
Just knowing he was there was enough to bring it all rushing back – the passion – the heady excitement – the belief that at last she’d found the man who could satisfy and nurture all her needs – and the ultimate betrayal that had destroyed everything and forced her to spin a web of lies ever since.
She stood there for a long moment, staring out into the darkness, before closing the blackout curtains. She could only pray that those gossamer threads held together, for should they unravel the damage would be irreparable.
4
On the Road to Devon
General Felix Addington pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and
stared grimly out of the car window, barely recognising this grey, shattered London. The large staff car made its way through the devastation, driven carefully by Sergeant Herbert Cornwallis of the Royal Military Police, on loan from Whitehall.
The weather was awful, the long-forgotten damp chill of an English winter seeping into his bones despite the thick layers of clothing he’d donned before they’d left the American Embassy that Friday morning; the stench of burning rubber and decay drifting into the car even though the rain-spattered windows were tightly closed.
He’d heard the news reports and read the papers back in California, but the reality was far worse than he’d imagined. During his short stay at the embassy, he’d walked the once familiar streets of the city and couldn’t begin to understand how people carried on living here amongst the rubble with so very little to brighten their lives.
He wiped the condensation from the window and watched as boys played in the bomb sites, men in bowler hats strode importantly past, and women carefully picked their way over the rubble, their knotted headscarves adding the only splash of colour to the dourness of it all. Everyone looked thin and drawn, their shabby clothes hanging off them, their shoes down at heel, but he was amazed by their cheerfulness, their smiles as they waved at the sleek black car with the Stars and Stripes pennants fluttering from the wings. It seemed that nothing could break that bulldog spirit Churchill had engendered, and Felix could only hope that the people within the requisitioned zone where he was headed felt the same way – although he had serious doubts about that, seeing as they were on the point of being swiftly evicted.
As Sergeant Cornwallis took the large staff car smoothly out of London and headed into the equally dowdy and damaged suburbs, Felix closed his eyes and rested back in the soft leather seat, wondering what the hell he’d let himself in for. He was sixty-two and had retired from the army almost twenty years ago, a three-star general with a generous pension and still fit enough to enjoy life in his California orange and lemon groves, and to go sailing with his son, who thankfully was now too old to be drafted back into active service.
This peaceful existence had been interrupted by a presidential summons to the Pentagon. Although he was grateful that his service to his country had been recognised, Felix had donned his uniform again with reluctance. Travelling to Arlington County in Virginia, he’d learned that he was needed to oversee the forthcoming invasion rehearsals and report back to the Pentagon, as well as liaise with the British forces down in Devon, and help smooth the way during the civilian evacuation.
He’d been enormously flattered by the faith they had in him, yet he’d hesitated before accepting. England held memories that were still painful even after so long, and he’d vowed never to return. But his country needed him; his president and the Supreme Allied Commander in Europe had specifically asked for him – and as a career soldier and fiercely loyal American, he’d really had no choice but to put aside his own sensibilities and accept the honour.
Felix dug his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his greatcoat and tried to retain some sort of body heat. He thought again about his short stay in London and the woman whose heart he’d broken all those years before. Dolly’s smile could light up a room, and just thinking about her brought back the sound of her voice, the scent of her perfume and the softness of her skin. Like him, she would no longer be young, but knowing Dolly she would still retain that beauty and zest for life which he’d so loved and admired.
He wondered where she was and what she was doing now, for he’d gone to the mansion block where she’d been living all those years ago only to find an ugly bomb crater surrounded by the pitiful remains of the once elegant row of houses. He sincerely hoped she hadn’t been killed or injured, and that she was safe somewhere, just as lively and lovely as ever – perhaps even married with children and grandchildren surrounding her. But the old crowd they’d once mixed with couldn’t be traced, and in a way he was relieved. They had parted in anger and hurt, and although his circumstances had changed, he doubted very much if she’d want to see him anyway.
Impatient with his thoughts and shivering with cold, he leaned forward and slid back the glass partition between him and his driver. ‘Is there any chance of getting some heat back here, Herby?’
‘Sorry, General,’ replied the young policeman. ‘The heater’s not working.’
‘Like most things in this darn country,’ muttered Felix, remembering the trouble he’d had trying to get the radiator working in his room at the embassy. He peered out of the window and realised the day was already closing in. ‘How long is this journey gonna take?’
‘About another five hours to Exeter, sir. After that, it’s anyone’s guess.’
‘How come? Don’t you know where you’re going?’
‘I know the way, sir,’ the younger man replied stiffly, ‘but the lanes are narrow and winding in the West Country, and what with cows wandering about and farm machinery getting in the way, it could take another six hours to just go the last few miles.’
‘Then I suggest you put your foot down, buddy, and stop dawdling. I have a meeting to attend tomorrow.’
Herbert looked askance. ‘Can’t be done, sir. Not now it’s getting dark. It’s the blackout, you see,’ he went on, his ears going pink with annoyance. ‘There’s a very strict speed limit, and with these shuttered headlights, it’s difficult to see where I’m going. We don’t want an accident, do we, sir?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we do,’ sighed Felix in defeat, closing the window and slumping back into his seat. He’d forgotten how complicated it was to get anywhere in England, with endless villages and towns getting in the way, confusing crossroads and junctions, and not a decent highway to be had which would cut through the chaos. Now, with all the signposts taken down to deter an invading army, roads blocked by bomb craters and the detritus of shattered buildings, and no proper headlights to light their way, it was like trying to get through a maze blindfolded.
Accepting that it could well be dawn before he arrived in Slapton, he could only pray he didn’t die of hypothermia before he got there.
Felix woke, stiff and cold with an aching full bladder. He realised he must have been asleep for several hours, for a grey dawn was lightening the sky and the car was slowly moving along a deep, narrow lane overshadowed by high hedgerows.
He slid back the glass. ‘Where are we, Herby?’
‘Just crossing from Dorset into Devon, sir,’ he replied, his attention fixed to the winding lane ahead of him which only just accommodated the wide car.
‘Well, Herby, I guess as you’ve been driving all night it’s time to pull over and rest.’
‘We’ve not far to go now, sir,’ he replied through a vast yawn. ‘But I’ll stop at the Ploughman’s Inn for breakfast and a bit of a wash and brush-up if you don’t mind.’
Felix smiled at the delicate way the young Englishman had mentioned the need for a piss. An American driver would have been far more blunt and probably stopped the car close to a convenient bush so they could both relieve themselves. There was no doubt about it, he thought, the British were a different breed – and in a way he preferred that to the rather brash informality of so many of his own countrymen. You knew where you were with the English, for although they spoke quietly and weren’t at all pushy, they had their own way of getting things done with a minimum of fuss and fanfare.
His thoughts turned to breakfast. A gallon of hot, strong coffee, pancakes with maple syrup, fried eggs and crisp bacon would certainly be welcome, for he hadn’t eaten more than a disgusting spam sandwich since leaving London.
To take his mind off his bladder and his rumbling stomach, he continued the conversation. ‘You sound as if you know the area,’ he said. ‘Is that why you were seconded to me?’
‘Yes, sir. I was born in Blackawton, which is a village within the evacuation area. I was thirteen when my family moved north to Bude. Dad was promoted to police inspector, and a house came with the job, so we were well
set up. He’s gone now,’ he added sadly, ‘and Mum’s on her own since my brother joined the navy.’
‘So, you’re a Devon man by birth? How do you think the people will take this eviction, Herby?’
‘They won’t like it,’ he replied. ‘Not used to change, see. Most of them probably haven’t even left their villages before, so there’ll be a good deal of consternation and upset.’
‘But they know there’s a war on,’ Felix said thoughtfully. ‘Surely they understand the importance of what we’ll be doing down there?’
‘All they’ll understand is that they’ve got to clear out and leave their homes, businesses and farms behind.’ The younger man cleared his throat. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I think you might find some of them will be quite hostile towards the Americans.’
‘But we’re here to help you win this war, dammit,’ Felix spluttered.
‘You and I know that, but these are country folk, sir. They’ll regard the Americans as an invading army – in the same way as they would if Hitler’s lot was to descend on them and take over.’
‘It sounds as if I’ll have my work cut out trying to liaise with them,’ sighed Felix.
‘I would count on it, sir,’ Herbert replied dryly. ‘But there will be some on your side, and of course there will already be a couple of small American units setting up down there to help with the evacuation.’
Felix stared out of the windscreen at the narrow rutted lane which appeared to have grass and moss growing along its centre. He gave another deep sigh as his belly rumbled again. ‘Then let’s hope they do a good breakfast at this inn,’ he muttered. ‘If I’ve got a battle ahead of me I need a full stomach.’
The younger man stifled another yawn. ‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope of the sort of breakfast you’re probably used to back in America, sir,’ he said. ‘If we’re lucky we might get lumpy porridge, toast and marge, and of course a pot of tea.’
