The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Hello! Sorry—not late am I?’ she asked, ambling over to him, as she stuffed her car keys into her handbag. She’d had her hair highlighted and styled since he had last seen her and, with the white trousers and burgundy shirt that she wore, looked even more like Barbara.

  ‘No, no, not at all.’

  Rose stood in front of Morton and raised both hands. ‘Now. I don’t know what Barbara’s told you but we didn’t tell him anything about her. It’s not that we’re ashamed or embarrassed or anything, we just didn’t know how to tell him and…well, we never have. So, please don’t bring that up.’

  ‘No problem,’ Morton said. ‘I understand.’

  They began to walk towards the steps that led up to the entrance. It was an old Victorian property with a well-tended front garden.

  ‘I’m not sure how useful this visit is going to be for you, to be honest,’ Rose said, as they entered the building.

  ‘Well, there’s no harm in asking a couple of questions,’ Morton replied.

  They signed themselves into the visitor’s book, then Morton followed Rose into a sweltering dayroom. It was large and open with chairs dotted all around the outside, many of which were vacant.

  ‘There he is—usual place by the window,’ Rose muttered, pointing to a high-backed chair, at which a white-haired figure sat.

  It was a nice spot. It overlooked a neat garden that sloped down to a terrace then a large lawn beyond.

  Rose gently placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good morning!’

  The old man was thin and gaunt-looking. He turned and beamed. ‘Rose!’

  She leant in and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Do you remember, I said that I was bringing someone to see you today?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he answered, seeing Morton for the first time. ‘You must be Mr Farrier.’ He extended out his bony right hand.

  ‘And you know who he is from the records,’ Rose quipped to Morton.

  Morton sat down and looked at the old man. He was wearing an open white shirt, flannel trousers and a pair of fluffy slippers. Morton looked into his moist grey eyes.

  ‘So, what is it I can do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m doing some research for Rose on her mother’s wartime and wondered if you could shed any light?’

  He frowned. ‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t know that much about what she got up to, but fire away.’

  ‘Morton wanted to know why the house was named Valletta,’ Rose blurted before he could ask anything. ‘I said you went there on honeymoon with Mum.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘But the house was named before you married Mum,’ she countered with a hint of detective pride in her voice.

  The old man looked slightly perplexed. ‘I believe Elsie was stationed there at some point in the war,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘She liked the place, so we went back there for our honeymoon in 1968.’

  ‘Was that why she named the house, then?’ Rose asked, seemingly disappointed with his explanation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had no idea she got up to so much—fancy Mum travelling to Malta,’ Rose began, turning to Morton. ‘What was she in the WAAF? Her rank, I mean?’

  ‘She ended up as a Squadron Officer.’

  ‘Yes, a Squadron Officer,’ Rose repeated. ‘Why did she never say that?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘People were encouraged not to talk about what went on in the war. Being in the WAAF, I expect she would have signed the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Even so…’

  A small silence enabled Morton to ask his first question. ‘Could you tell me what you can recall about her wartime service in the WAAF?’

  ‘Well, I know that she was in the Y-Service, stationed at Hawkinge for a while in 1940. The WAAF took over an old house there and the girls used to listen in to the German pilots flying overhead. Good at her job, so she told me,’ he laughed. ‘Then, I believe I’m right in saying, the Y-Service moved to West Kingsdown in north Kent. After that, she had a brief spell in Malta—Valletta. She advised the bigwigs on the problems with intelligence-gathering there before returning to West Kingsdown. I think her last posting was RAF Bentley Priory…’

  Morton made hasty notes as the old man spoke, then asked, ‘Do you know what happened after that?’

  The old man turned towards the window and frowned. ‘I can’t recall now—she might have left the service—yes, I think that’s it.’ A throaty cough spluttered from his mouth, making him sit up sharply.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rose said.

  He nodded and exhaled noisily. ‘Rose, could you fetch me a glass of water, please?’

  ‘Won’t be a moment.’

  His gaze followed Rose out of the room then he turned sharply to Morton. ‘Look, what is it you’re after, exactly?’ he demanded fiercely.

  Morton was slightly taken aback. ‘Just information about Elsie during the war.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he mumbled, stroking his chin. ‘I think you’re not showing me your hand, are you?’

  ‘I could say the same,’ Morton replied.

  ‘Can you come back tomorrow—alone?’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon. How about in the morning?’

  ‘Fine—I shan’t be going anywhere,’ he said. ‘Ah, here she is.’ He took the glass of water from Rose. ‘I was just saying to our friend here that I’m afraid I can’t remember anything more.’

  Rose pulled an I told you so face at Morton. ‘That’s okay, I’m sure Morton’s got one or two bits of information out of you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much,’ Morton agreed, standing. ‘I’d better get off. It was nice to meet you.’ He shook his hand then turned to Rose. ‘Thank you,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  11th July 1943, RAF Bentley Priory, Greater London

  Elsie Finch was in her element. She was six months into her new role as Squadron Officer in the 11 Group Filter Room of RAF Bentley Priory—the busiest and most central Filter Room in the entirety of the RAF. It was from here—in this very bunker—that the defence of important British coastline and the capital city was orchestrated. This Filter Room had been the linchpin in the organisation of the Battle of Britain.

  Elsie was standing at the balcony, overlooking the large plot table of southern England. It was only just after six o’clock in the morning yet the room and the table were already a veritable hive of activity. The table was littered with tracks. Several squadrons of Bomber Command and Fighter Command were grouping in the skies over Sussex, preparing to head out for raids connected to Operation Husky that had started two hours ago. The Allied invasion of Sicily had begun.

  At last, Elsie thought, we’re fighting back. As she watched the dozen female plotters and filterers below her, repeating the information being fed to them from coastal radar stations, Elsie cast her mind briefly back to her time in Malta and the continual air raids there. She had since learned that just one twenty-four-hour period had occurred in the first six months of 1942 without an air raid. And yet the islanders had stood firm, refusing to capitulate. Elsie prayed that Operation Husky would be a success; it would finally give Malta a chance to recoup. Upon returning home from the island, she had been summarily called to the Air Ministry, where she was informed that hers and Aileen’s recommendations had been fully implemented and, because of her work there, she was to be promoted. A new role at RAF Bentley Priory then followed.

  Of course, it wasn’t just she who felt a heightened anxiety today; there was a general sense of nervous anticipation that lingered in the warm, fetid underground air. Already this morning she had heard whispers, people daring to wonder if this might just be the beginning of the end.

  ‘Shift over,’ a cheery voice chirped from behind her. It was Mary Nye, the Squadron Officer from ‘C’ watch, coming to take over.

  With some reluctance, Elsie yielded her position. On such an important day as this, she would ordinarily have been minded
to stay on and assist. But today, she had no choice; she needed to get back to the billet, get some sleep and get ready. Violet was coming to stay for the night and the pair were finally going to head into London for the evening out that had first been suggested three years ago.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ Elsie answered. ‘I think we’re going to have an eventful few hours.’

  ‘Great,’ Mary grinned.

  Elsie left the bunker and headed out into the fresh air. She loved working in the bunker—or the Hole—as it had been dubbed, but it was a nightmare for air quality and temperature. Like most Filter Rooms, in the winter it refused to warm up and in the summer it refused to cool down.

  Feeling that she had squeezed the last of the mildewy air from her lungs, Elsie strode the short distance to the No.2 Officers’ Mess. Due to the security of the work that they were undertaking, Elsie and the other officers who worked in the bunker were kept apart from the other members of the WAAF.

  The building was a grand eighteenth-century former stately home, and Elsie was fortunate enough to have her own simple room upstairs.

  She closed her bedroom door, stripped down to her underwear, and picked up the airgraph that had arrived yesterday from Woody. To save the Royal Navy the unnecessary risk of shipping thousands of tons of military post back to England, letters were photographed, the film flown over, then the letter was printed and sent on to the recipient. She lay back on the bed and re-read his airgraph. My dearest Elsie. Just a short note to let you know that I’m still just about alive and still missing you desperately. Counting the days until my happy arms will hold you, and someday I’ll know that moment divine when all the things you are, are mine. xx

  She grinned at the clumsy way in which he had melded his words with the song lyrics. Very corny. Closing her eyes, she drifted back into his arms. The song played inside her head, just as crisply and flawlessly as it had done those days at the dance in Hawkinge and in Captain Caruana’s in Valletta, lulling her into a contented sleep.

  She opened her eyes several hours later, sweating and slightly breathless. Beside her on the pillow was Woody’s crumpled airgraph. Her dreams, as was their habit of late, had effortlessly blended snatches of reality with disturbing quantities of some fabricated alternative world where Laurie had returned, retrieved her wedding ring from the old Maltese woman and was now holding her captive as a prisoner-of-war. It was laughable and yet it served to emphasise the reality of her situation. Could she ever really have a future with Woody?

  She sat up, feeling the burn of guilt in her heart. She dug her fingers in a rib gully above her left breast, trying to ease the burning sensation beneath it.

  Maudling and dreaming; she was doing more and more of it lately. It was time to snap out of it and get ready.

  She ventured over to the wardrobe and pulled it open. The choice of attire for the evening was dismal and depressing. A utility outfit—purchased last month with clothing coupons—that resembled something her mother might have worn, or a pastel blue dress and cartwheel hat that had seen much better days. Or she could just remain in uniform. These days, all she seemed to do was rotate between her nightie and her WAAF uniform. She had almost forgotten what it was like to have a choice between several outfits. Obviously, she selected the pastel blue dress; last worn when, exactly? She had no idea. Months ago.

  She pulled on a pair of brand new silk stockings that she had been saving for a special occasion, feeling bizarrely guilty that she was preparing for a night of fun whilst her comrades faced an intense night supporting Operation Husky. It seemed frivolous, to say the least. Yet she continued getting ready. She pulled on the dress, styled her hair and applied what little make up she had left. Lastly, she pulled on a pair of white gloves.

  She tipped her hat to an angle and pouted in the mirror, vaguely satisfied with the woman looking back at her.

  Elsie glanced at her bedside clock: bang on time to meet Violet outside the station gates. She left her room and took her time to descend the stairs and leave the Mess building. A slight quiver of nervousness rumbled in her tummy. It had been three months since she had last seen Violet and even then, it had been fleeting when Elsie had been sent to train WAAF operators for a few days at West Kingsdown. Since then, they had both struggled to arrange simultaneous leave.

  Violet was leaning on one of the stone pillars that guarded the entrance to the station. Elsie spotted her way back. She was smoking and, judging by her body language, flirting with the two army guards. Violet half-turned then did a double-take and deserted the guards, running full-pelt towards her.

  ‘Elsie Finch!’ Violet cried, squeezing her tightly. ‘Or is it Air Marshal Finch, now?’

  Elsie laughed. ‘Squadron Officer Finch, actually.’

  ‘Well, you look amazing, Squadron Officer Finch,’ she declared, looking her up and down.

  ‘Says the woman wearing a film star’s wardrobe. Where do you get these outfits?’

  ‘This old thing?’ Violet did an impeccable twirl, much to the admiration of her two male onlookers. She was wearing a floor-length dark-red gown, her hair freshly rolled and styled in ringlets that fell perfectly over her bare shoulders.

  Elsie reached for her hand. ‘Come on, we’ve got a tube to catch.’

  They took the Bakerloo tube into central London, arriving at the Elephant and Castle in just under an hour.

  ‘Golly,’ Elsie remarked, as they stepped out of the station. London was as it had always been, bustling with shoppers, street vendors, cars and buses. Only the surrounding buildings betrayed the façade of normality; the majority were merely skeletal carcasses with no windows or doors, no life inside them. Others were boarded up. Of some, there was now no trace, their having been blasted apart and swept into history. Just a lucky few stood timidly among the desolation.

  ‘Awful, isn’t it?’ Violet commented. ‘The worst raid of the war flattened the area. Tenth of May forty-one. They were targeting the railway lines. More than a thousand people were killed. Five hundred bombers...’

  Violet continued explaining the damage around them, but Elsie had stopped listening when she had told her the date. The tenth of May 1941; the night that she had given birth. It was one of those oddities of war…of life, she supposed; she had brought a life into the world, whilst others were being so cruelly taken away.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I think hearing that date mentioned will forever make my heart miss a beat.’

  It took a moment for Violet to understand. ‘Oh, sorry, Elsie.’ She placed her arm over her shoulder. ‘It must be jolly hard for you.’

  ‘I think about her most days—wonder what she’s doing, what she looks like now.’

  ‘You sound like you regret giving her up,’ Violet said.

  Violet’s words struck something that ran through Elsie’s very core. ‘Yes, I do,’ she muttered, vocalising for the first time a growing doubt over the actions that she had taken. It was all because of Woody and the teasing possibility of a different life, once this war was over.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get her?’ Violet suggested, as if it were as simple as just waltzing up to Cliff House and politely asking for the two-year-old girl back that she had given up to her sister-in-law.

  Cold reality kicked back in. She was married to Laurie. She had signed legal paperwork absolving her of all parental responsibilities. Anything else—a life with Woody and their baby—was simply an absurd fantasy.

  ‘No,’ Elsie said flatly. She forced herself to smile, to change her track of thought. ‘Right, what first?’

  Violet twirled around dramatically. ‘This is London—you can do anything.’

  ‘Let’s eat, then. I feel like I haven’t had a good meal for months.’

  ‘And drink,’ Violet added. ‘I know just the place.’ She laced her arm through Elsie’s and marched them off down the street.

  ‘So, how’s life at RAF Bentley Priory?’ Violet quizzed.

  ‘Hectic,’
Elsie replied. ‘But I love it.’

  Violet squeezed her arm and led them down a quiet side street. ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘I saw Churchill the other day.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  Elsie nodded. ‘He’s a frequent visitor.’

  ‘And did you speak to him or get a puff on his cigar?’ Violet laughed.

  ‘Sadly not, we passed in the corridor. I saluted him and he mumbled something in reply. And that was that.’

  ‘Haven’t you come a long way since the day we queued up outside the Air Ministry together!’ Violet quipped. ‘And here’s me still twisting bloody dials and knobs and listening to Taube Zwei speaking in a code that we cracked in 1940. Honestly.’

  Elsie smirked. ‘How is life at West Kingsdown?’

  Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Same as ever. Nothing changes. Some new girls have been drafted in, but their German is appalling. They’ve even asked me to train them—that’s how desperate the situation has become.’ She laughed and pulled Elsie to a stop outside a dirty-looking building. ‘Here. It does the best pork and apple sauce in the whole of London.’

  Elsie followed Violet inside. It was a small place displaying considerable ill-effects from the Luftwaffe: the ceilings were cracked like a muddy harbour, the windows were patched with wood and the few tables dotted about the place had clearly borne the brunt of falling masonry. Still, the place held an oddly defiant charm.

  ‘Take your pick,’ a waiter said, gesturing to the entire room.

  Elsie’s pre-war instinct would have led her to the table beside the window. Her intuition now, however, took her to the furthest table away from the potential of flying glass.

  ‘Two gin and lemons, please,’ Violet called to the waiter. ‘Very, very large.’

  They sat opposite one another and Elsie removed her hat. ‘It’s so lovely to see you, Violet. I’ve missed you, you know.’

  Violet’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve missed you too, Elsie Finch. Let’s not leave it so long next time.’ She picked up the scant menu, skim-read it and said, ‘Oh, thank God for that—the pork is still on here.’ She passed the menu over to Elsie.