Rosamund nodded again and found herself, within just a few minutes, sitting in a room bristling with doctors and nurses bustling in and out, many with cardboard folders in which they were jotting down the details of casualties.
A cup of hot, sweet tea was put into her hand and she was urged to drink it. The saucer held a rich tea biscuit, and it struck her how odd and normal and polite that seemed in the face of such carnage. She had never taken sugar, but she sipped the hot liquid and tried to find sufficient breath to explain who her friend was and where she lived.
‘We live in Eaton Square,’ she confirmed. ‘Number 29. My friend’s name is … was … Celine de Rossignol. We have grown up together.’ She found herself bursting to explain how close they were; how important Celine was. The kindly doctor, no doubt rushed off his feet with other casualties and emergencies, listened attentively as Rosamund told him of moving from Devonshire to London, and how much Celine had meant to her. She was, in all but name, a sister.
‘Celine de Rossignol,’ he repeated, checking his notes.
‘Yes.’
‘The nightingale.’
Rosamund managed a smile. ‘That’s right. And she could sing so beautifully, too.’
Chapter 10
LONDON
JULY 1941
‘The night of 10-11 May 1941 marked the last major raid of the Blitz. It inflicted the highest number of casualties of any single night of the London Blitz: 1,436 Londoners killed and over 2,000 others seriously injured.’
Alex Nunn, West End at War, 2011
Celine’s death changed Rosamund. She felt a degree of anger that was, for much of the time, hard to suppress. For weeks afterwards she became, by turns, moody, taciturn, terse and tearful. Aunt Venetia, by contrast, found hidden reserves of strength, which she knew she would need to get her niece through the days and months ahead. Rosamund had already lost both parents; now she had also been deprived of her dearest friend and lifelong companion; it was a burden of unspeakable weight.
There were many days when she stayed closeted in her room; others when she had to be forced from her bed to eat, to drink, and even to exist. Having lived under clouds so dark that gloomier skies seemed impossible to conceive, she now found herself in the very depths of despair.
Sometimes she sat trance-like in the window seat of her room, gazing out across the square with unseeing eyes. In her mind played out scenes of a young girl and her governess on a Devonshire beach – the former dodging the waves, and the latter scolding her good-naturedly as she brushed sand from her charge’s hair in an effort to make her presentable for her parents. The singing of songs, the secret conversations in French, the sharing of a furtive glance at some perceived absurdity of a particular person or situation. It was a world now long gone; a world which, since that fateful May night, had ceased to exist.
Aunt Venetia knew that it would take time for Rosamund to recover from the shock, the anger and the seismic change that Celine’s death had wrought in her life. She herself had lived through the Great War, experienced at first hand the loss of friends, and seen in her brother and sister-in-law the effect of losing a son. She had been fond of Robert, and had not only mourned his death but also the breakdown of his parents’ marriage during that deep, dark time of their bereavement.
And now history was repeating itself. Would this human tragedy never end? Would mankind never learn from past mistakes; mistakes that were made within living memory and which should surely have diverted nations from sliding into conflict with one another in the vain hope of making the world a better place for some at the expense of others? Had Hitler learned nothing from Napoleon of the folly and ultimate futility of empire building?
But she must not let her lack of faith in humanity show, and she could also not risk trying to bounce her niece out of her grief. It would take time for Rosamund to work through those serried ranks of emotions that always accompanied personal loss: profound sorrow, anger, frustration and – most destructive of all – despair.
Bit by little bit, as the weeks wore on and both aunt and niece endeavoured to make some kind of sense of the life that remained, there gradually came about a change in Rosamund. It was a kind of hardness – a resilience that she knew would be needed if she were not only to get through the war itself, but if she were to make any kind of a life for herself in its aftermath.
Aunt Venetia watched as the change was wrought in her niece; watched knowing that such a transformation had to happen if Rosamund was to find a way forward, but also with sadness at the diminution of the vital spark of youth that war could so effectively extinguish. It was all such a waste …
It was the fact of realising that Celine had died in vain which galvanised me. Her life snuffed out at its most vibrant, as though her very existence had been pointless. I did not want that to be the case. I wanted her to have lived for a reason, to have achieved something, and the only accomplishment I could think of was that of my own upbringing. I was Celine’s achievement. If I failed to do my bit in life or to make a mark, then her life – as well as my own – really would have been for naught. It was an uncomfortable admission, but one that I knew I could not escape. But how to make my life worthwhile? That was not an easy question to answer. At least not at first. And then I remembered there was a way; that I was – thanks to Celine’s instruction and encouragement – amply fitted to do something to help us survive this war. And it really was survival. ‘Winning’ the war seemed to me an unfortunate phrase. A war was not there to be won; it was there to be survived. I knew that in order to survive, an enemy had to be defeated; that wickedness and cruelty had to be vanquished, but that did not mean triumphalism. All these strange and sometimes childish contradictions whirled around in my head until I finally saw with crystal clarity the path that lay ahead. It had already been suggested to me by Harry; albeit countermanded when he realised what it would entail. Aunt Venetia would, in all probability, not be happy with my decision, but I hoped that she would respect my wishes and my determination. It was the only way that I could make sense of the past and cherish any hope of a meaningful life in the future.
Diana Molyneux was delighted that Rosamund had emerged from her self-imposed exile. It was two months since Celine’s death, and Diana had almost given up hope of ever seeing her childhood friend again.
They were out to lunch when Rosamund posed the question directly: ‘What do you actually do at Bletchley Park?’
Diana was taken aback. ‘Well, I can’t really say …’
Rosamund realised the indelicacy of the situation; knew that she had phrased her enquiry clumsily. ‘I know. Sorry. What I mean is … without going into detail … is it something that I could help with?’
Bletchley Park had been mentioned before in one of their conversations, so Diana knew that Rosamund was aware of her place of work, if not the precise ins and outs of what that work entailed. She also knew – not least from their childhood, as well as later from a conversation she had had with Harry Napier – that Rosamund was totally trustworthy and the least likely of her friends to entertain idle gossip. Quite the reverse; there had been times in their Devonshire youth and childhood when Rosamund’s secretive nature had driven Diana mad with irritation and curiosity.
‘Are you good with numbers?’ she asked.
‘Hopeless. Absolute Greek to me. Words are my thing.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame. Bletchley is all about numbers, you see. But then I think you’ve probably worked that out already …’
Rosamund nodded. ‘Yes.’ Then, lowering her voice, ‘I’m absolutely hopeless at cracking codes. Can’t work up any interest at all over digits; they make my mind spin …’
‘But you speak French.’
‘Yes.’
‘Fluently.’
‘Absolument.’
‘So …’
‘So what?’
Stirring her cup of tea and doing her best to look as though this was nothing more than two young women sharing secrets about b
oyfriends, Diana lowered her voice and asked softly, ‘Have you heard of “The Firm”?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Rosamund looked at her blankly.
‘That’s what they call it. Or “The Outfit”, or, when they are being rude, “The Racket”.’
‘No. Oh dear; that sounds a bit too high powered for me.’
A man taking tea with a well-dressed woman a few tables away cast his eye in their direction.
Diana raised her voice in reply to Rosamund’s exclamation: ‘There’s nothing high powered about driving a jeep!’
The man smiled indulgently and turned back to talk to his companion.
‘Keep your voice down,’ murmured Diana. ‘Think about it. Look at what you can do, rather than highlighting what you can’t. You’re bright, you speak French so well that you could pass as a native, and you want to do your bit.’
‘That’s true.’
‘The only thing is, the work is not without danger.’ Diana regarded her friend with a serious expression. ‘This is important work, Ros, and not to be undertaken lightly.’
Rosamund met Diana’s gaze but said nothing.
‘It involves working behind enemy lines and it also involves a serious amount of risk.’
‘I can see that.’
‘I’m not sure you can. While I’m comfortably ensconced in Buckinghamshire, you’d be over in France. The place is swarming with Germans whose intelligence network is strong and sophisticated.’
Rosamund put down her cup and said in soft, measured tones, ‘I’m not stupid, Diana. I might be a bit dopey with numbers but I do have a brain and I am not afraid to use it. Neither am I afraid to risk my life. There are thousands of soldiers, sailors and airmen out there doing as much already, and I’m not going to sit idly by enjoying dinner parties in Mayfair and going to bring-and-buy sales or knitting mufflers for the troops. While I have breath in my body, I want to use my talents to do something serious and positive to help bring this bloody war to an end. The last one took my brother. This one has taken my dearest and closest friend. There is no way that I am going to sit back and hope that through the efforts of others and great good fortune we might come through it. I’m not made like that.’ She paused and took another sip of tea. Then she said, in a louder voice, ‘Do I get to drive lorries as well?’
The man at the other table looked over again and smiled.
Diana’s eyes gleamed. ‘Right. Well, good for you.’
Rosamund shrugged. ‘It’s taken me a while to realise it, and to admit as much to myself, but I think I probably do have a few talents that might in some way be useful to my country. I could never forgive myself if I did not use them. It would make Celine’s death absolutely pointless and futile.’
Diana countered in a voice no more than a whisper, ‘Yes, but again, this is dangerous work …’
Rosamund murmured softly, ‘French speakers are needed. And I am a French speaker …’
‘Better than any I know.’
‘Well then, what do I do? How do I let them know I am willing to sign up?’
Diana shook her head. ‘You don’t. You’ll have to wait for what they rather delicately call “the tap on the shoulder”.’
‘I see. I can wait. But not for too long, I hope.’
The two friends paid the modest bill and left the small café in Greek Street to a merry wave from their friend at the other table.
‘Are you really sure about this?’ Diana said, as they walked along the pavement in the direction of Piccadilly.
‘Quite sure,’ responded Rosamund.
Diana stopped and turned to face her. ‘There is one thing you ought to know. Before you make up your mind.’
‘Only one?’
‘The most important one.’
‘Which is?’ asked Rosamund, half-smiling.
‘At least half of those who join The Firm never come home.’
‘You mean they stay in France? Live there?’
‘No, Ros. I mean they never come home. To any home.’
Chapter 11
LONDON
LATE SUMMER 1941
‘To combat may be glorious, and success perhaps may crown us; but to fly is safe.’
William Cowper, ‘The Task’, 1785
It was a little while before the ‘tap on the shoulder’ came. I had half-expected Sir Patrick Felpham – whom Harry had indicated was involved with the intelligence service – to take me to the side at one of Aunt Venetia’s lunch or dinner parties. Whenever he was in attendance, I would glance in his direction for a knowing look. Or when he sat next to me, as he occasionally did, I waited for him – between harrumphings – to whisper furtively in my ear. It was not a pleasant prospect, but then neither of these imaginings translated into reality. Sir Patrick barely looked at anyone during these gatherings, reserving his searing gaze for the contents of the plate or bowl immediately in front of him, and offering his pronouncements on this and that without ever looking up.
It was a Thursday morning. Rosamund was shopping for a new blouse in the eastern wing of Bourne & Hollingsworth in Oxford Street – the only part of the store which had survived the bombings and continued to trade daringly. She felt it showed solidarity to patronise those shops that had not capitulated to Hitler, but which had remained open in some capacity in spite of the difficulties imposed by crumbling façades and a lack of much in the way of lighting and heating.
She was making her way out through the side door with her purchase when a tall gentleman in a dark coat almost knocked her over. The neatly tied brown-paper parcel slipped from her hands and on to the newly swept pavement.
‘I am so sorry! How clumsy of me. I must look where I am going.’ The man raised his bowler hat in apology and then stopped: ‘Bless my soul. Rosamund! How are you?’
He bent down to retrieve her package as she exclaimed, ‘Lord Belgate!’
‘I really am sorry. I was so busy looking to see if they were open that I didn’t notice you coming out. Are you alright? Is your parcel intact?’ He turned it over and examined the brown-paper package for damage. ‘I see that it is. That’s something at least.’ He handed it back to her with a respectful nod.
‘Yes. It’s such a relief that they are still in business,’ confirmed Rosamund. ‘You never know from day to day who will be open and who will be closed, but at least they’ve swept up most of the glass.’
‘Thank the Lord. One got so used to crunching everywhere one went.’ He smiled at her and replaced his hat. ‘Just nipping in for some new socks; it’s so hard to find anything nowadays, but I can’t believe they will have had a run on those. Your aunt is well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And you? You seem to be weathering the storm … and that terrible business …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yes.’ Rosamund looked down, but managed a faint smile. ‘Weathering is a good word. I’m trying to.’ Then she raised her head and looked him in the eye.
‘I’m going to do my bit, Lord Belgate. I’m not sure how just yet, but I can’t sit by and watch everyone else fighting this war without playing my own part.’
‘Good for you! But then you are already playing your part. You’re looking after your aunt, and I should think that is pretty much a full-time job.’ There was a knowing twinkle in his eye as he looked down at her kindly. His neatly trimmed moustache, which seemed somewhat whiter than it used to be, bristled as he spoke.
‘Oh, I think she’ll manage. Mrs Heffer won’t let her get into mischief,’ Rosamund assured him.
‘Mmm. From my experience, it will take more than Mrs Heffer to keep Venetia Reeves in order. She’s a force of nature …’
‘Yes. That’s true. How’s Billy?’
‘He’s fine, from what we hear – which isn’t much, as you can imagine. He’s been away for a couple of months now. It’s a worry, of course, so many of them fail to return from their … sorties, you know. His mother frets about him. As do I. But then that’s war, isn’t it? The sons and daughte
rs do the fighting and the mothers and fathers do the worrying.’ Then he murmured, almost to himself, ‘I’m not sure which is the harder task really …’
‘No. I do see that.’
Her words jolted him out of his reverie. ‘Well, good luck, my dear. Whatever you decide to do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And remember me to your aunt. It must be about time for another of her lunch parties, I should think. Haven’t been to see you for a few weeks. Must make up for that soon.’ Lord Belgate raised his hat again as he bade Rosamund farewell, then walked briskly away down Oxford Street.
‘What about your socks …?’ Rosamund’s words echoed after him. But he did not turn round.
An hour later she laid the parcel on her bed and picked at the knot in the string which held it together. As she peeled back the brown paper, she saw not only the cotton blouse, but also a neatly folded square of paper lying on top of it. She assumed it was the receipt, and put it to one side before shaking out the blouse, holding it up to the light to admire it, and then transferring it to a coat hanger inside the wardrobe. Then she wound up the string and folded the brown paper, placing both in a drawer of her dressing table – this was a time of ‘make do and mend’, when nothing that could be used again was disposed of until it fell into such a state of disrepair and decrepitude that its demise was inevitable.
She checked in the mirror before brushing her hair and making ready to go down to lunch. As she crossed the room, she noticed the discarded square of paper lying on the silken counterpane. She picked it up and unfolded it to check that the transaction had been properly recorded. But the slip of paper made no reference to pounds, shillings and pence. Instead, it bore a brief message:
Please call PAD 1739.
C.B.
How had it got there? And what did it mean? It did not take her long to answer both questions. Lord Belgate must have slipped it inside the parcel when he bent to pick it up. And it meant that her life was about to change.
The Scarlet Nightingale Page 10