Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  Jago caught the subtle change in Rita’s voice but wasn’t sure whether Dorothy would. It was time to interrupt.

  “Miss Appleton is a professional acquaintance, Rita,” he said. “I’ve been instructed to assist her with her work, help her to find out what’s happening round here, with all the bombing and so on.”

  “Well, dear,” said Rita, smiling at Dorothy, “if you want to know what’s going on in these parts you’ve come to the right place. I get all sorts in here, hear all manner of talk. See right through people, I do.”

  She led them to a table for four near what had once been the front window.

  “Still patched up with plyboard, I see,” said Jago.

  “Yes,” said Rita. “Can’t see much point putting glass back in, just so it can get blown out again by the next bomb. Did you hear what the Home Secretary said?”

  She turned to Dorothy with an understanding look.

  “He’s a bloke in the government,” she said.

  Dorothy smiled and nodded her thanks.

  “Apparently he told the House of Commons that little strips of brown paper aren’t much good at protecting your windows if a bomb drops outside,” Rita continued. “Fancy that. Not just a pretty face, is he? Blinking genius. I just wish he’d told the rest of us before mine all got blown in. The time I spent putting those bits of paper all over them. What I want to know is why didn’t they find out whether it worked before they told everyone to do it? You’d think they could’ve tried it out first – you know, just one little bomb outside a few windows, just to see.”

  “I think this table will be perfect, Rita,” said Jago.

  “Oh, very well, then. Sit yourselves down.” She pulled a chair back from the table for Dorothy. “Here you are, dear. Take the weight off your feet.”

  Dorothy sat down and pulled the chair in towards the table.

  “American, eh?” said Rita. “I don’t know much about America myself, only what I see at the pictures. You know what I like best?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Those Fred Astaire musicals – him and Ginger Rogers. When he’s dancing, it’s like he’s floating in the air. Lovely songs too – I only have to hear him sing ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ and I come over all funny. But those dances – they’re just beautiful.”

  She gazed at the wall as if she were watching the film all over again, then seemed to wake from her dream.

  “But that’s Hollywood. All we’ve got here is the Lambeth Walk.”

  “The Lambeth Walk?” asked Dorothy.

  “It’s a dance, dear,” said Rita.

  “I see. Like the jitterbug?”

  “The what?”

  “The jitterbug. That’s a dance too, very big in the States – fast footwork, lots of swivels, strutting and spinning, and the man throws the woman around in his arms. ‘Swing the wing and whip the hip.’ That’s what they say.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Rita. “Sounds a bit racy for here. The Lambeth Walk was just Lupino Lane strolling round the stage with a girl on his arm, like they were out in the park, with a load of other people doing the same thing behind them. It was in Me and My Girl – I saw it at the Victoria Palace just before war broke out, but the theatre’s closed down now on account of the bombing. It was supposed to be about Cockneys, but the plays and the pictures never get that right.”

  “I’ve heard of the jitterbug, Miss Appleton,” said Cradock quietly. “I read about it in a magazine.”

  Jago had almost forgotten Cradock was there. Was the young pup growing soft on Dorothy? His idea of a quiet and friendly lunch seemed to be getting complicated. He was already feeling awkward about inviting Peter to join them, but the truth was he’d been keen to make it clear to Rita that this was a working lunch, so that she didn’t start getting ideas in her head about him and Dorothy. He didn’t want to keep his friendship with her a secret from Rita, but neither did he want her to think it was anything more than a friendship. Right now he wasn’t sure what impressions Rita was getting.

  He glanced across the table at Dorothy, who was still smiling patiently at Rita. He didn’t really know what he thought about her. He liked her, but then he imagined most people probably did. He admired her – her paper must think her more than capable if they’d posted her to London as a war correspondent. And in dirty old London, so set in its ways, she was like a breath of fresh air. The fact was he enjoyed spending time with her and wanted to know her better. But on the other hand, women were undoubtedly a complication. Then again, if he tried to set aside the possible complications and look at it simply, she was one of the nicest people he’d met. Like her half-sister Eleanor. But that was another complication. He was still coming to terms with the fact that she was related to the woman whose path had crossed his so many years ago. It was all too confusing, and he wasn’t going to sort it out now.

  “What can you offer us for lunch today, Rita?” he said.

  “Well, I can do you all the usuals – sausage, egg and chips, beans on toast, all that kind of thing – and I’ve got a couple of specials on. Beef and two veg and cabinet pudding and custard, or tripe and onions and boiled apple pudding. Oh, and I’ve got some nice pork chops in too.”

  “Excuse me,” said Dorothy to Jago. “I’ve never eaten tripe; in fact I’m not even sure what it is. Should I try it?”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “It’s part of a cow’s stomach, or a pig’s – either way I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Okay. Maybe I should go for something lighter. I think I’ll have beans on toast.”

  “And you’ll want a cup of tea with that?” said Rita.

  “Of course.”

  Jago ordered a pork chop with boiled potatoes and peas, while Cradock opted for a more extensive combination of sausage, eggs, bacon, chips, and beans. Rita scribbled the orders on her small notepad, slipped it into her apron pocket and set off towards the door at the back of the café that led to the kitchen.

  Dorothy leaned a little towards Jago across the table.

  “Do you think I should have had the tripe and onions after all?” she said. “I know you’ve been trying to introduce me to British cuisine and culture, and it feels like I may have just missed an opportunity.”

  “No,” said Jago. “I think it’s best to take these things gradually. I don’t want to endanger your health.”

  “So what other cultural experiences do you have lined up for me?”

  “I don’t have a list, I’m afraid. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “How about your English football? Would I understand it?”

  “The rules are simple – one side tries to kick the ball into the other side’s goal while the other side tries to kick lumps out of them.”

  “Sounds just the right game for wartime.”

  “I suppose so. But I’m not sure whether you’re ready for the cultural shock of a football crowd.”

  “I am a war correspondent, remember.”

  “Okay, I could take you to a match at the Boleyn one of these days, perhaps.”

  “At the what?”

  “The Boleyn – it’s the local football ground. It’s Boleyn as in Anne Boleyn, but we say it differently round here: ‘Bow-lin’. Don’t ask me why – it’s just what we do.”

  “She was one of Henry VIII’s wives, wasn’t she? What’s she got to do with football in West Ham?”

  “Not a lot, really. It’s just because there’s an old tower in the street where the ground is, and it’s called Anne Boleyn’s castle, though there’s no evidence that it was.”

  “Did she get her head chopped off?”

  “Yes. Henry wasn’t very good with women, and especially with the Boleyn women.”

  “There were more than one of them?”

  “Yes. He had Mary Boleyn as his mistress for a few years, but then he married her younger sister Anne, who became the queen – and as you so rightly said, had her head chopped off for her pains. I don’t think there’s any evidence that she ever lived in W
est Ham, but the football ground is still called the Boleyn. If you’d like to go some day I’ll take you.”

  “Would Rita mind?”

  “No – you mustn’t take any notice of her. It’s just that we’re old friends and she can be a bit protective.”

  “I think she’s sweet,” said Dorothy.

  “Yes, and if you don’t get on the wrong side of her she can be very kind,” said Jago.

  “In that case I’ll do my best.”

  “To business, then. What do you want to know about the Fifth Column?”

  “I’d like to know if you have any personal experience of these people, whether there’s been any activity locally that you could call Fifth Column. And does it even really exist, or is the government just talking about it to keep people on their toes?”

  “That I wouldn’t know,” said Jago. “I do know that a lot of high-ups in various pro-Nazi organizations were arrested all over the country in May, but I’m not sure I can tell you whether any of them were part of some real Fifth Column in the sense of working actively to aid the enemy.”

  “Anyone from around here?”

  “Yes, there was one. He was the local West Ham leader of the British Union of Fascists. A Welshman actually, but he moved over here sometime in the thirties. And as I recall, before that he lived in Texas for a while and served in the US Navy in the last war. So there’s an American connection for you. He was going to be the Blackshirts’ candidate for the general election too – we were supposed to be having one this year, but it was cancelled because of the war. I don’t imagine he’d have won, though – there was a by-election in February in Silvertown, down by the docks, and the BUF man only got about a hundred and fifty votes. Labour got fourteen thousand.”

  “But I guess you don’t need to be a fascist leader to be part of the Fifth Column,” said Dorothy. “Surely that could be anyone who’s sympathetic to the Nazis or who has some other reason to help an enemy.”

  “Absolutely,” said Jago. “And that’s presumably why the government rounded up all the German and Austrian men in the country and put them in camps when the war started. I can’t say I agreed with it, but I suppose they couldn’t tell who might be a spy and who wasn’t, so they decided they were all enemy aliens and put the whole lot away just in case. Seems barmy to me when some of them had been here for donkey’s years and were as loyal as I am, but that’s government for you.”

  “I’m an alien myself, you know. I had to register with the police when I came to England and I’m required to carry an alien’s registration certificate.”

  “Yes, but you’re American: you’ll be classified as a friendly alien.”

  “That’s right. So there are aliens and aliens. But have any spies or enemy agents been caught around here?”

  “To my mind all the talk about a Fifth Column is rather vague. When France fell in June there were rumours going round that German parachutists would be landing here and organizing local Fifth Column members and arming them, but I don’t know where the weapons were supposed to come from. These Germans were apparently going to create panic and confusion and spread false news among the civilian population, but I don’t know how. The papers say people who spread rumours are Fifth Columnists, but they might be just people who’ve heard something and are worried about it. Passing proper secrets or useful information to the enemy is a different kettle of fish, of course. There’s been a few court cases around the country – people charged with doing that kind of thing – but none in this area.”

  “So you don’t think there’s much to it.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Jago saw Rita approaching, followed by a waitress with a faraway look in her eyes. Both women were carrying trays of food and drink.

  “Perhaps you’d better ask Rita,” he said.

  Rita arrived at their table.

  “Here we are, Phyllis,” she said to the girl behind her. “Yours is for the young lady over there.” Phyllis deposited Dorothy’s order on the table in front of her. “And these,” Rita continued, putting her tray down and taking off a plate in each hand, “are for my two favourite policemen.”

  Jago smiled his thanks as she arranged his plate and cutlery carefully before him. She straightened up and gave Cradock a look that was kindly but that also clearly signalled he was to sort his own knife and fork out.

  “Rita, Miss Appleton would like to know what you think about the Fifth Column,” said Jago. “Can you spare us a moment?”

  “Me? Of course,” said Rita. “But eat up – don’t let your food get cold.”

  She eased herself onto the fourth chair at the table, carefully folded the white cloth she was holding and put it down in front of her.

  “I can’t really say I know much about that. Why do they call it the Fifth Column anyway?”

  Cradock had assembled a forkload of sausage and beans but paused before putting it into his mouth.

  “Good question,” he said. “I’ve been wondering that myself. Is it like a sixth sense – the one that doesn’t really exist but might do? Do you know, sir?”

  “Actually, Peter, I don’t.”

  Cradock looked surprised. He couldn’t remember Jago ever not knowing the answer to one of his questions.

  “Perhaps I can help,” said Dorothy. “I think I was there when people first started using the expression. It was in Spain four years ago – I was covering the civil war. General Franco was about to attack Madrid and said he had four columns of troops, but also a fifth one in Madrid.”

  “You mean he had troops hiding in the city?” said Cradock.

  “Not troops, but sympathizers, and he reckoned they could be as much help to his victory as an extra column of troops.”

  “Right,” said Rita. “That makes sense. The Fifth Column’s doing the same job for Hitler here, then. I’ve heard rumours, you know.”

  “Maybe,” said Dorothy. “That’s why I think it’s interesting. People are talking about a pro-German Fifth Column in America too, and we’re not even at war.”

  “Well,” said Rita, picking up her cloth and rubbing at a spot of grease she’d noticed on the floral-patterned oilcloth that covered the table, “interesting it may be, but to me it just seems it’s another thing to worry about. I mean, if we’re going to be invaded we all need to be on the same side, don’t we? I think it’s jolly good what the government did, interring all those foreigners.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Jago could see Cradock looking at him with a questioning expression, as if expecting him to explain to Rita the difference between interment and internment, but Jago ignored him. His job was to make a coherent and intelligible professional out of Cradock, not Rita.

  “I’m more worried about being invaded,” Rita continued. “Everyone who comes in here reckons it must be any day now, otherwise why would the papers keep telling us every day what the weather’s like in the Channel and talking about the RAF going over to the French coast to bomb the invasion barges all the time? The Germans must be planning something really big.”

  She cast a cautious look to either side before leaning into the table. She dropped her voice, as if wary of being overheard.

  “I got a letter from my sister-in-law who lives up in Nottingham – she’s the one my Walter’s brother married. Nice girl she was, and they moved north after the war; he survived the war, of course, unlike my poor Walter. Anyway, she said there’s rumours going round up there that Hitler’s already tried an invasion down on the south coast and failed – hundreds of dead German bodies floating about in the Channel, she says. Do you know if that’s true, Mr Jago?”

  “I haven’t heard it for a fact, Rita, but I’m sure if any Germans had landed round here they’d have been arrested. Last time I checked the cells at the station there were no storm troopers in custody.”

  “There were a few nuns with jackboots under their habits, though,” said Cradock with a chuckle that caused a piece of sausage to fall from his mouth.

 
; Rita’s face took on a pained expression.

  “You’re making fun of me, Mr Jago. That’s not fair. It’s a very serious thing, being invaded, and everyone knows the Germans are going to try. Who’s to say they haven’t had a go already? I’m not surprised my sister-in-law’s worried – I know I am. Not to mention the thought of parachutists landing all over the place, whether they’re dressed up as nuns or not. If Hitler can drop a bomb on the street out there he can drop soldiers too.”

  Rita pushed her chair slowly back from the table and got up.

  “I’d best be getting along now. I’ll leave you to enjoy your nice food.” She sighed quietly. “Wars and rumours of wars – it’s all too worrying. You don’t know who you can trust these days, do you?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Lunch over, the two detectives walked Dorothy to Stratford station for her train back to central London. Cradock hung back several paces behind them, out of earshot. Whether this was evidence that the young man was developing a sense of tact, or whether he had simply been distracted, Jago did not know, but he appreciated having a little time alone with Dorothy. It was only when she looked at him with an expression of questioning concern that he realized he’d been lost in thought for several minutes, trying to understand what he felt about her. She flashed him a brief smile.

  “Are you okay?” she said. “You look very serious.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Jago. “I was miles away.” He hesitated, unsure what to say next. “So, was there anything else you wanted to know about the Fifth Column? Not that I’m a great expert, as you can probably tell.”

  “There is one thing, yes,” she said. “I got the impression from what you said that you hadn’t seen much of the Blackshirts here, but I was told they’d been very active in the East End. Is there really not much support for the fascists in this area?”

  “It’s actually difficult to say now, because they’ve gone a bit quiet since the arrests in May. The fascists certainly always used to be able to draw a crowd, and their message appealed to a lot of people. British first, that’s what they used to say – look after Britain and the empire. But Labour’s always been very strong in West Ham, you see – the borough had the first socialist council in England – and the communists did pretty well too, so there were plenty who’d have liked to run the Blackshirts out of town. I got the impression that the parts of the borough where more of what we’d call lower-middle and middle-class people live, like Forest Gate and Upton, were more pro-Mosley –”