The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  He was quite tall, and slim. Slender of build. Unlike that Neanderthal, Turnbill. A beautiful body, rather than an aggressive body.

  Long, brown hair, ineffectually swept backwards as locks meandered here and there. Typical fighter-pilot style. Often greased back into wavy shape by Brylcreem. He was like the advert for Byrlcreem you saw on billboards.

  Maybe there was something boyish about him, but Fiona liked that in a man. Maybe a bit effeminate. She found that threatening, but not harmful. She wasn’t scared by it. Just aroused. It was seductive, not dirty.

  He was a bit like the young man she used to fantasize about meeting when she was a young girl speaking silly nonsense with her mates on her bed, but, in the end, never had.

  It was sad, really. Meeting, when it was far too late, the young chap she should have met nearly twenty years before.

  She indulged in a touch of melancholia. Self-absorbed self-pity.

  She wiped her left eye with her left hand, briskly, brusquely, like brushing away specks of dust. It was always her left eye which welled up.

  They hardly exchanged any words when together. Just mindless formalities. You know, the weather, and whatever had been in the newspapers that morning. The usual courtesies.

  That is, apart from one time.

  He hadn’t said anything particularly significant.

  He had kissed her.

  There had been a drinks-party at her house. It had been in full swing for at least an hour, and Freddie still hadn’t turned up at his own party. He’d gone out earlier in the day, with some excuse about seeing his solicitor, or bank-manager, or something. Fiona knew where he’d gone. He was in a brothel, or with one of his whores, up to his nasty tricks.

  He was unthinkingly humiliating her again, as she made silly excuses for his lateness, all the while her flushed, hot face, she felt sure, betraying her awareness that the others all knew what he was up to, and pitied her.

  She made an excuse about checking up on the nibbles cook was preparing, so that she could leave the room for a minute or two of respite, and nearly collided with Matthew coming into the room.

  “Sorry!” he murmured, his body so close to hers.

  “Sorry!” she automatically echoed. “Freddie will be here any moment, I’m sure. Can’t think what’s keeping him.”

  She immediately wanted to bite her tongue off. Why had she said that? Matthew Manfred wasn’t remotely interested in Freddie and his whereabouts. She’d said it out of embarrassment and insecurity, and Matthew’s softening stare showed he understood it completely.

  She swallowed, tense, feeling half-witted and contemptible.

  Matthew glanced quickly into the room to make sure they couldn’t be spotted, and then moved towards her.

  His lips opened and he planted a brief, unspectacular kiss on her dry lips.

  Then he was gone.

  She remained transfixed for what seemed ages.

  Her face was on fire.

  She half-wanted to lick her lips to savour the taste of his, but desisted, because it would remove the lingering sensation of them on her.

  Then she felt anger, not because he had kissed her, but because he might have kissed her out of pity. She didn’t want that.

  But she certainly wanted more kisses.

  That was wrong, wasn’t it?

  That was against her religion, and sense of morality, wasn’t it?

  Maybe that was another secret to harbour in her breast, and make sure never peeped out and got spotted.

  You got punished when secrets were revealed, didn’t you?

  4

  It was quite easy to find out where Granville, Turnbill and Manfred now were.

  Group Captain Jenkins was nicely in her pocket.

  In his boorish, careless way he had let slip the ungentlemanly conduct he had been party to. Although unlikely to lead to any threat of dismissal, Fighter Command might not be too happy to hear of the behaviour an officer as senior as a Group Captain had condoned, or even instigated.

  And Fiona, in her relatively elevated position in society, could easily open up channels to an Air-Vice-Marshal or two.

  It was in Group Captain Jenkins’s interest to keep his participation in such a cruel escapade quiet.

  She rang Jenkins and asked him directly if he could inform her where the three of them were based.

  He replied that such information was confidential, and, if anything, classified.

  “I just would like to know what was going on, Group Captain. I have no intention of causing problems, either to Freddie’s three comrades, or to yourself…”

  He rang her back the next day with the information requested.

  He also said, with a slimy cough, that he hoped Fiona would keep him abreast of matters.

  That was her other hold on him. He was such a terrible old rake that the temptation that his continuing contact with her, and helpfulness, might lead somewhere else, kept him on-side.

  Flight Lieutenant Granville had been posted overseas. She assumed that removed him from suspicion, at least as concerned the continuation of the letters after the introduction of the Post Office Box address. He might have had some group involvement at the beginning of the nasty charade, but not afterwards.

  The letters had been posted from England. Granted, the post-marks had been varied, often from London, with a sprinkling of others from all over the south-east. Varied, but not diffuse. The letters were posted from within the same geographical area.

  Nonetheless, she did write Granville a letter.

  She introduced herself, and explained she would appreciate hearing anything he could let her know about her husband. If he had time, of course. She pretended to be a distraught wife plaintively seeking stories of her husband for her mental photo-album. On the other hand, she didn’t lay it on too thick. She kept her supposed grief within limits. Very restrained. Very British. Very stiff upper lip. She hoped such a brave attitude would make her plea that more compelling.

  She mentioned, right at the end, that it had been suggested to her that Freddie had not in fact written all the letters, no doubt due to pressure of time and duties. Did he know anything? Also, there was an overlap in the letters, and her husband’s death. The two events didn’t coincide as much as they should have. Could he explain that at all? Anything he could tell her would be much appreciated.

  She ended with the usual formalities. You know, wishing him all the best, wondering whether he needed anything sent from Britain which he couldn’t get out there, and what he missed of England, and how he was coping. And what the situation was out there. Things were looking up, weren’t they? At least they were here on the Home Front. What about out there? And were there any messages he had for relatives and friends here in Blighty?

  Flight Lieutenant Manfred was based at Hornchurch, just outside London.

  She sent him the same letter, without the overseas stuff, of course.

  She added a personal sentence or two.

  “We didn’t have the greatest contact here in Scotland, Flight Lieutenant, but I do recall a moment or two of kindness and consideration from you in the past, which were greatly appreciated. I would be so much obliged if you could let me know something, however seemingly unimportant.”

  Then she put in a bit more. She hesitated. She started to cross it out. She stopped. She considered re-writing the letter. In the end, she re-wrote the word or two she’d crossed out, gave a sigh, and quickly licked the envelope before she could change her mind.

  “I’m often in London, Flight Lieutenant. In fact, I’m planning to be there next month. I am flexible over the exact date. It would be so lovely if we could possibly synchronize that date with any leave you might have, and meet up for tea. I do apologize for imposing upon you, and please do disregard my wishes if they are at all an encumbrance upon you.”

  When she sat back in her chair at the writing-desk in the study, she realized her body was shaking quite uncontrollably.

  As concerned Flight Lieute
nant Turnbill, she wrote a letter similar to the other two, without the overseas stuff, and without the personal stuff. She had no particular desire to come face-to-face with him. He was based at Biggin Hill, also not too far from London.

  One thing common to all three was that promotion to Flight Lieutenant had accompanied their postings.

  These were 287 Squadron’s high-flyers, so to speak. Officer material. The ones marked out for command. The ones whom Fighter Command considered possessed those qualities of organizational ability, leadership and spirit which no war could be won without.

  She received a type-written reply from Flight Lieutenant Manfred in a matter of days.

  5

  Fiona felt her muscles tensing up more and more.

  He’d kept her waiting more than ten minutes.

  She was seated in Lyons tea-room near Charing Cross. She’d chosen a table plumb in the middle of the spacious room, which was full of the clatter of tea-cups, saucers, plates and cutlery as waitresses scurried from table to table. A throng of people were queueing up in the waiting area to fill any places vacated by customers in the packed-out room.

  There was a preponderance of mothers and children, but also a fair smattering of men and women in uniform, a sombre blend of blue, grey and khaki, as they snatched a few minutes of pre-war normality in lives transformed by world war.

  She saw him before he saw her.

  He was standing at the end of the large room, peering around at the mass of tables.

  She cleared her throat, and nervously smoothed her skirt.

  She was wearing a white blouse—the one with laced embroidery around the collar—and a black, pleated skirt. And her tiny, beige hat. She’d agonized over her choice, and in the end had opted for standard, conservative attire. Well, to be honest, practically all her outfits were standard and conservative.

  At least as concerned fashion, she wasn’t pretending to be what she wasn’t. There was no point.

  He was moving towards her, slowly and methodically, nodding at the occupants of chairs he had to swerve round.

  His cap in his hands, the gorgeous figure in his greyish-blue uniform meandered over towards her, his trouser-legs flapping and his jacket giving little twitches in rhythm with the movements of his torso. He stood in front of her, and nodded.

  “Mrs MacIntosh.”

  She nodded back.

  “May I?” he asked, taking hold of the back of the chair facing her.

  “Of course. So nice of you to waste some of your precious leave on me and my silly worries.”

  “Only too happy to try to be of help.”

  So, there he was right in front of her, staring gently enough at her.

  His face was soft and fine-featured. His hair was smoother and more ordered than she remembered. Maybe he’d gone to the barber’s just for her. His blue eyes were as penetrating as ever.

  She swallowed nervously.

  They ordered tea and upside-down-pineapple cake.

  The top button of his jacket was unbuttoned, disturbing her greatly as he leant forward to take his cup of tea from her, or fiddle with his piece of cake.

  The thinness of his blue cotton shirt, and the slightly-loosened tie straddling his neck, forced her to emit silly, little grunts, and cross and re-cross her legs.

  “Frog in your throat?”

  “It’s nothing,” she murmured with a prim smile, taking a sip of tea.

  They fell silent once more.

  “Do let me extend to you my deepest sympathies, however belated, at the loss of your husband,” he said, with a curt nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “You must miss him a great—"

  “Things are much quieter now for you, aren’t they?” Fiona cut in. “I mean, the Luftwaffe are not attacking in the numbers they did last year?”

  Fiona noticed him staring at her hands.

  She was doing that silly trick of hers, rubbing her left wrist back and forth with her right hand. She couldn’t help it. She was often a bundle of nerves, and it was a nervous tic which automatically clicked in. Just like her clearing of her throat. Her prim, little half-coughs.

  “Yes, we can breathe a little now,” he said, still glancing at her hands with eyes ablaze with fascination. “I start to indulge the thought I might actually survive the whole wretched thing.”

  He gave a start. It was his turn to look uncertain and gauche.

  “Sorry,” he continued. “A bit indelicate. I didn’t think. I didn’t mean to—”

  It’s all right,” she cut in again, his discomfort making her feel more confident. “Y-You must know…and I know you do… It’s not that Freddie and I were blessed with a supremely happy marriage…”

  “Well,” he responded, a slight blush on his face making him look so uncertain and vulnerable that Fiona emitted two or three little coughs to cover up a breathless pain of excitement seizing her chest, “I imagine Freddie could be quite difficult at times. Freddie was Freddie. Still, as in all marriages, I’m sure there were moments when—”

  “He was absolutely beastly at times!”

  Flight Lieutenant Manfred stared at her even more intently, slightly open-mouthed, completely astounded.

  Fiona was rubbing her wrist as if her life depended upon it. Her body was shaking, her face was flushed, and her mouth was as dry as a desert.

  She realized her hysterical outburst had been totally out-of-place, and she gave a little laugh, as if to brush it off.

  As he sat there, obviously embarrassed and tongue-tied, he looked so young, not much more than a boy.

  “The trials and tribulations of marriage are something you don’t need to worry about for the moment, Flight Lieutenant Manfred,” she said, now calmer, and worried about the impression she was creating. “You can leave all that to the future.”

  He nodded, giving an awkward cough himself.

  “Freddie was Freddie,” he repeated blankly, as if any small talk had been blasted out of him by Fiona’s directness. “Maybe, looking back…although probably I shouldn’t say it…you and he perhaps were not ideally suited… It was perhaps a marriage which should never…”

  His voice trailed off, as he realized he had probably gone too far.

  He looked down and started to fiddle with his hands.

  It was Fiona’s turn to be amazed, and not a little perturbed.

  She was thirty-eight next month, and Matthew was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, a young man thrust into adulthood by the demands and challenges of war. Was it quite proper for him to talk to her like that? Wasn’t he being disrespectful towards her? Surely one had to follow the requirements of decorum and decency, in order to make life bearable? And, in particular, men had to do that, otherwise they acted like Freddie, and that was positively hateful.

  She shot a quick, almost accusatory glance at Matthew.

  Was he no better than Freddie and his sort?

  “I do apologize if I went too far,” mumbled a contrite-looking Matthew. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

  On the other hand, thought Fiona, she had to discover who the letter-writer was. It could well be Matthew. The hope that it was Matthew in fact brought a stab to her heart. The way he was speaking now suggested it was him. He spoke as if he had knowledge of her personal life with Freddie, which, if he were the letter-writer, he would have gleaned from the intimate secrets shared between them when he pretended to be Freddie.

  She was confused and nervous.

  She had to probe further, and find out the truth. What he knew, and didn’t know. What he had done, and hadn’t done.

  But she was also very distressed. She felt out of her depth. Her dislike of Freddie—and revulsion at the disgusting things he’d wanted her to do—coursed throughout her body like a physical sensation, and she wanted to share it with Matthew. She wanted to make him understand.

  And she wanted to discover if he already understood, because he was the letter-writer, and knew everything about her. Well, almost everything.<
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  “Don’t worry, Flight Lieutenant Manfred,” she said, after letting out a deep breath, “I’m not offended.”

  He nodded thankfully.

  “Please call me Matthew,” he said, looking slyly at her, yet with a disarming smile.

  How beautiful he was.

  A lock of hair had detached itself from its wavy mass, and dangled down over his forehead, caressing it as he spoke, while his words’ vibration disturbed his soft skin.

  Those blue eyes tormented her.

  Those fine, well-formed lips, opening and closing, disturbed her greatly.

  She remembered the kiss he had given her that evening at the party, and wondered whether he too was thinking of it.

  She nodded politely.

  “Manfred? A rather Germanic name for a Flight Lieutenant in the Royal Air Force?”

  “My grandfather was from Bavaria,” he explained, with another gorgeous smile.

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” she asked.

  “Ein Bischen,” he replied rather unsurely. “Just a few words, really. Your accent sounds pretty good.”

  “I often visited Germany in the early thirties,” she in turn explained. “I was once a great traveller. France, Italy, Greece… Even before then, I visited Europe a lot with my parents, when I—”

  She stopped, realizing that Matthew was no more than a child at the time she was talking about. What an idiot she was! She was making herself sound ancient.

  “Of course, there were better moments with Freddie,” she said, changing the topic and reverting to her original game-plan, so to speak. “It’s just that—and these are personal matters a young chap like you needn’t worry about—he was at times quite improper and ungentlemanly in his behaviour towards me, and that, I couldn’t countenance.”

  So saying, she stared him full in the face.

  Although not as much as before, the same look of amazement, albeit subdued, crossed his face. She sensed he couldn’t quite make her out, and that thrilled her.