by Erica James
Before he’d gone away to Canada and returned a broken man, she had begun to imagine a future with him, perhaps because she could see how much Kit needed somebody strong like her by his side. Somebody who could guide him towards achieving goals he’d never thought possible. Some might say that had been arrogant of her, but she saw it as her role in life, to inspire others to achieve their dreams. It was why she had become a teacher in the first place.
In his desperately dark periods after returning home to Island House, Kit had pushed Evelyn away, saying he couldn’t bear for her to sacrifice her life for his sake. ‘You could marry any man you wanted,’ he would say to her, ‘why settle for a pathetic crock like me?’
‘Because I love you,’ she’d said.
Whether or not she really had at that time, she couldn’t say with a hundred per cent certainty. Perhaps she had loved him, but had not been in love with him. But what she hadn’t doubted was that her feelings for him would strengthen in the years to come, that they would become something truly meaningful and lasting. Moreover, he had needed to know that he was still capable of being loved, and she was the one to prove that to him.
It was during one of Kit’s dark periods that she had been approached to work at Bletchley Park. Feeling it might be good for them to have some time apart, if only so that Kit could come to terms with his situation on his own, she had accepted the post.
Her recruitment had happened so quickly she had scarcely any time to speculate what she was letting herself in for. But from the moment she arrived at Bletchley Park, she realised nothing could have prepared her for what lay ahead.
Chapter Nineteen
Bletchley Park
August 1941
Evelyn
In common with most arrivals at Bletchley Park my first thought was what a hideous house it was. A hotch-potch of architectural styles, it was, I came to know in the coming days and weeks, a reflection of the varied mix of people who worked there. It wasn’t at all unusual to be chatting with a lady someone-or-other in the queue for lunch one day, and a GPO engineer the next. From all walks of life, we had been selected to do one job, to defeat Germany, and in total secrecy. Everyone had to sign the Official Secrets Act on arrival and we all took that oath seriously. Even to this day I have never once spoken of my time at Station X, as Bletchley was known back then.
I was billeted for my first night in a crowded boarding house in the centre of the town. I shared a small room with a girl who snored like a rumbling volcano threatening to erupt and who kept me awake until I shoved my head under the pillow. Although I was tempted to use my pillow to smother her!
The next morning my snoring companion offered to give me a lift on the back of her bicycle to the Park, and so off we went with her pedalling hard while effectively sitting on my lap. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of my small suitcase and handbag, which constituted my worldly possessions.
Strangely I never saw The Snorer again during my time at Bletchley, which went to show just how many people worked there. It was also true that people often disappeared, never to be seen or heard of again. Given the intensity of the workload, burnout was a common problem and judging it to be bad for morale, those who couldn’t take the pace were quickly despatched back to their civilian lives. Of course, on that particular August morning as I was directed to Hut 6 to begin my duties, I had no idea how hard I was destined to work.
Instructed first to go to Registration Room 1, I found I was one of many new recruits, the majority being graduates from Oxbridge, as well as a few other universities. I was older by about five years, and was reminded of being back at Oxford, surrounded by linguists, classicists, and mathematicians like myself. I concentrated on what was being explained to me, which was an overview of what went on in Hut 6 in relation to the whole of Bletchley Park. Cogs and wheels came to mind, and on a vast scale. I learned that all over England and Scotland there were wireless stations intercepting enemy messages. These were then couriered by motorbike to Bletchley, specifically Hut 6 and the Registration Rooms. It would, I was told, be my job to help sort and list the messages. Once that was done the process would begin on decoding them. This was done by those who were further up the chain, the elite in Hut 6.
I was warned that the task before me had to be done with painstaking care and that it could be mind-numbingly tedious. But I didn’t care; I was fascinated by everything I saw and heard.
That evening, as I located my newly assigned billet, a cottage some four miles away in a hamlet with little to offer other than a clutch of houses, an ivy-clad pub and a duck pond, Melstead St Mary felt a long way away. No more would I have to deal with Mother’s histrionics that she was at death’s door. Guiltily, I was even relieved that I now had something to distract me from worrying about Kit.
It was hard to admit this, even to myself, and despite having encouraged Kit, I had been jealous of him joining the ATA. I envied his and Romily’s contribution to the war effort. I had fought my jealousy by telling myself that I was doing essential work in teaching the young children of the village, as well as the influx of evacuees, like Stanley. But as fulfilling as my job at the school was, I didn’t consider it enough. I felt I could be doing so much more.
With the light beginning to fade on that warm summer’s evening, the sweat pooling between my shoulderblades as I trudged along the dusty road with my suitcase and handbag, I suspected I was lost. I plonked my suitcase down on the ground and referred to the small map I’d been given. It was no more than a sketch which I’d been told was not to scale. I concluded that I must have taken a wrong turn half a mile back, so picking up my case, I retraced my steps. When I eventually found my destination, at the end of a rutted track and knocked on the front door, I was ready to drop. It had been a long day.
Wayside Cottage was a modest red-brick Victorian dwelling which would win few prizes in a beauty contest. But the front garden was a much better proposition. Where flowers had very likely once grown, the patch was currently laid out with rows of vegetables. There were onions and potatoes, and peas and runner beans winding themselves up sticks fashioned into wigwams. With rationing making life so hard, everybody was digging for victory these days.
From the other side of the door, I heard a key being turned and then the door creaked open, but only by an inch. A girl wearing nothing but a towel and a shower cap peered cautiously back at me through the gap.
‘I’m Evelyn Flowerday,’ I said, ‘I believe you were expecting me.’ I smiled. ‘I certainly hope you are at any rate.’
The girl smiled too and opened the door further. ‘Come on in,’ she said, ‘give me five minutes and I’ll give you a proper welcome.’
She pointed towards a room off the narrow hall, and clutching the towel around her, she dodged upstairs.
I did as she said and went through to what I discovered was a decent-sized sitting room. The furniture was well-worn, but at least it appeared to be clean. A table covered in a gingham cloth was placed beneath a window looking out onto the front garden. I wondered if that was where I would eat.
On the opposite wall was another window and this gave a view of the back garden. I went to have a look and saw a long thin strip of a garden where chickens were pecking at the grass. To one side, jammed against a brick wall was an Anderson shelter. It seemed unlikely that the Luftwaffe would drop a bomb here, but as we were frequently told, better safe than sorry. The rest of the garden was given over to fruit trees and at the farthest end was an old timber-framed greenhouse.
The girl who’d opened the door to me now reappeared, dressed in a pair of dark green high-waisted trousers and a cream short-sleeved blouse with a bow at the neck. Her feet were encased in a pair of peep-toe wedged sandals. Her blonde hair was stylishly pinned up on her head with several decorative combs. She wore no make-up but still looked exquisite.
‘Gosh,’ she exclaimed, ‘what a frightful first impression I mus
t have given you opening the door like that when I was practically starkers! I do hope I can make amends. How about a drink? No, better still, why don’t I show you where you’ll be bedding down? I’ll warn you now, sleep will be your best friend after a few weeks of being at the Park. Here, let me take your case for you. What did you say your name was?’
‘Evelyn. Evelyn Flowerday.’
As effervescent as a glass of champagne, the girl thrust out her hand and shook mine vigorously. ‘I’m Tally; short for Natalia. Come on, let me take you upstairs. I do hope you’re the kind of gal who can rough it, because there’s nothing grand about Wayside Cottage.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be perfectly comfortable,’ I said.
We were at the top of the stairs on the small landing when I asked if there was anybody else billeted here.
Tally turned to me with a shake of her head. ‘There are only two small bedrooms, so it’s just us.’
‘Have you been here alone, then?’
‘No. Until a few days ago Diana was here.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘The poor girl got herself into a bit of a fix, if you know what I mean.’ As though to make sure I did know what she meant, Tally patted her stomach.
‘No danger of that happening to me,’ I said with a breezy laugh, thinking of Kit and that with still no sign of an engagement in sight as he came to terms with his injuries, we were resolutely chaste.
Tally looked at me, an expressive eyebrow raised. ‘People are falling in love all the time at the Park. And if not love, then . . . well, I’m sure I don’t have to explain. It’s an outlet for the pressure we’re under. That’s what happened to Diana.’
They were words that would come back to haunt me.
Chapter Twenty
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Evelyn
‘Tick-tock-tick-tock, I can literally hear your brain ticking.’
Startled, Evelyn spun round from where she was sitting in front of her dressing table and mirror. ‘Em,’ she said, ‘how long have you been standing there?’
‘Long enough to know that your mind is elsewhere.’ She came over and sat on the corner of the bed. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
Evelyn smiled brightly at her daughter. But then it was easy to smile when she looked at Emily; she was such a delightful girl. Her heart-shaped face radiated a naturally caring and happy disposition that drew people to her. ‘Oh, I’m perfectly all right,’ she said, ‘I was just taking a few minutes to catch my breath. It feels as though we’ve been preparing for this party for ever.’
Her daughter’s expression instantly changed. Whenever she was concerned, two little lines appeared between her eyebrows. She had been the same as a small child. Like a barometer reflecting a change in the weather, she had always been sensitive to someone else’s feelings, or a sudden change in atmosphere. In contrast, her brother, more often than not with his head in the clouds, could blunder into an almighty row and not have a clue that two people had been on the verge of throttling each other.
‘That sounds like you’ll be glad when it’s over.’
‘Heavens no!’ Evelyn lied. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Good,’ said Em, rising from the bed and kissing her mother’s cheek. ‘You deserve this party.’
Did she? thought Evelyn when Em had left her. Did she really?
Unable to look at herself in the dressing table mirror, she turned towards Kit’s side of the bed and took in the precise way he had laid out his clothes ready to put on. He had planned everything like a military exercise, leaving nothing to chance. When he had first suggested they should celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary, she had imagined a low-key family affair. But he had said two decades of putting up with him warranted more than that. ‘And don’t worry about arranging things,’ he’d assured her, ‘I shall do it all.’
Most husbands would happily come up with the proposition to throw a party and then immediately hand the responsibility over to their wives. Not Kit. Once he had a thing in his head, there was no stopping him. He had spent an age putting together the guest list and on a daily basis the list grew and grew. ‘Is there anybody in the village you haven’t invited?’ she had teased him.
‘We know so many people,’ he’d replied, ‘and there are some we simply can’t not invite. Imagine how offended they would be not to receive an invitation.’
That was Kit all over; he hated to disappoint or upset anybody.
‘Not dressed yet?’
Again Evelyn was startled out of her thoughts. This time by Kit.
‘Just about to make myself presentable,’ she said cheerily. ‘Although I fear it’s going to take more spit and polish than usual. I should have gone to the hairdressers and had my hair set.’
‘Nonsense, you’ll look your usual beautiful self.’
‘Dear God, Kit, you do say the sweetest of things.’
‘Only when it’s true,’ he said, coming over to her. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ He placed it on the dressing table. ‘I thought you might like one before the cocktails start to flow.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, thinking that she couldn’t wait for a proper drink. Something to take the edge off her anxiety.
‘Shall I leave you to get ready?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Stay with me for a while and then we’ll get dressed together. For now, let’s have a moment of calm before the storm.’
He sat on the corner of the bed where earlier Em had perched, then turned towards the door as a crescendo of laughter, male and female, could be heard, followed by the sound of somebody giving a rendition of a popular tune. Evelyn didn’t know what it was, but it was rather catchy.
‘It’s fun having the children home with their friends, isn’t it?’ Kit said, facing her again.
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘they bring the house to life, don’t they? When Edmund and I were growing up here, there was very little laughter. Mother would affect a fainting fit if there was so much as a whisper to shatter the peace and quiet.’ She sipped her tea. Kit had made it just the way she liked, strong and with only a splash of milk.
‘There was very little to laugh over at Island House either when I was a child,’ he said. ‘When I think about it, that’s what stands out the most for me. Not my brother Arthur’s sadistic cruelty, or Allegra arguing with Hope, or Dad always being away, but the lack of joy. That to me now, having experienced the happiness of being married to you and having Pip and Em, seems such a profound shame. Love, and making others happy, is all that counts if you ask me.’
He looked so earnest as he spoke, and Evelyn was struck, as she so often was, by seeing beyond his scars, beyond the moustache and the flecks of grey in his hair, and seeing the handsome young man he’d once been.
‘Do you ever wish you could turn back the clock?’ she asked.
‘To a specific time?’ he replied. ‘Or just back to being young again?’ He paused. ‘Or to a moment before doing something rash that one now regrets?
Noting the careful way he had answered her, she said, ‘A bit of all three, I suppose.’
‘Do you want to turn back the clock?’
She smiled. ‘I asked first.’
‘The obvious answer would be to say I’d go back to when I was in Canada, and I’d make sure I booked my passage home on a different ship.’
‘And the less obvious answer?’
‘I wouldn’t turn back the clock and change what happened to me. Who knows what might have happened if I’d returned later, or sooner? I could have made it home safe and sound, then flown with the RAF and been shot down and killed on my first mission. I count myself as one of the lucky ones.’ He leaned forward and touched her hand. ‘I’ve been the luckiest of men, Evelyn. In so many ways.’
She
raised his misshapen hand, the fingers of which had never straightened after being burned, and turning it over, she kissed his palm. ‘I’ve been lucky too.’
A moment passed while she gazed into the blueness of his eyes and she was suddenly taken back to the day, twenty years ago, when she had stood before him in church and uttered the words ‘I do.’
It had been a classic wartime wedding, hastily thrown together. She had worn a day dress bought with clothing coupons, some of which had been donated to her by Romily and Hope, and the service had been attended by just a few close friends and family. From the church they had walked the short distance to Island House where Mrs Partridge had served sandwiches and Kit’s favourite tomato soup in mugs. By pooling rations, enough ingredients had been collected in order for Mrs Partridge to make a small wedding cake complete with dried fruit.
When they cut the cake together, Kit had kissed Evelyn with such a look of adoration on his face, she had promised herself she would never do anything to hurt him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Quince Cottage, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Florence
Florence was not the murdering kind. She really wasn’t. But when it came to her mother-in-law, she was prepared to make an exception.
Over the years she had thought of many ways to get rid of Ruby Minton, but being the sensible person she was, sneaking up on the old bat with a heavy saucepan, or adding arsenic to her tea, or placing a tripwire at the top of the stairs, was clearly out of the question. And anyway, no matter how vile Ruby was, the woman wasn’t worth going to prison for.
However, right now she would happily swing for the old witch.
‘I said you look like a cheap whore in that dress.’
‘I heard you the first time, Ruby,’ Florence said pleasantly, then muttering to herself, ‘I’m not the one who’s deaf, but who refuses to accept it.’
