by Andy Conway
“We’ll get down there, then,” said Charlie. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” croaked the old man, giving a salute as they climbed back down the steps to the church below.
It was almost empty, the last few people filing out of the church’s rear door to the shelter. She went to follow but Charlie took her hand.
“Not that way,” he said. “We’re going home. There’s something we have to do.”
— 15 —
THEY STROLLED DOWN St Mary’s Row, like bank robbers trying not to draw attention to themselves though the alarms were screaming behind them. Surreal. The streets all empty and that haunting siren wail. The end of the world. A few stragglers filed across the village green, heading up the alley to the shelter, but Charlie turned into the ginnel between the ironmongers and the fruiterers, and she followed him into the black hole, putting her hand on his shoulder.
They stumbled blindly through the back yard and up the stairs to the apartment above the street and he flicked the light switch. Nothing. The two of them standing in the dark.
“Electric’s gone. I have to put a shilling in the meter.”
He walked off in the blackness, towards the tiny kitchen room, and she stood in the dark, hand to the wall, the sirens wailing outside, maddening fear swarming all over her skin. The bombers would come any moment now and they were hiding in the dark. It was insane, but strangely thrilling.
She heard him strike a match and caught a dim glow at the far end of the room. A fumble of coins and the mechanical turn of a slot, a great click and the lights came on, blinding her momentarily.
Charlie emerged, smiling, rubbing his hands, and kneeled before the gas fire, turning a dial and igniting a woosh of blue flame.
She stood, hugging herself, and he caught her anxious glance at the blackout curtains and the mad wailing beyond.
“We’re perfectly safe,” he said. “As far as we know, Moseley village is never hit. We have that reconnaissance, at least. How about you fix us a drink to warm us up, hmm?”
She lurched over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a couple of brandies, her hands shaking, realizing he’d given her something to do to calm her down.
He took his trench coat off and hung it on a hat stand with his cap, reaching towards her to pull her coat off. She shook her head and crouched before the gas fire.
“I’m cold.”
“Of course you are. You’ve been standing in a church all day while I’ve been running around. The brandy will warm you through.”
She took a sip and felt its flame of warmth bloom all through her. He slumped in the sofa and she wondered if he’d even sat down all day. He’d been out most of the night too. Had he even slept?
“I was thinking of hiding you away somewhere, but it’s better that you’re here. I’m sure of it.”
“What is it? What’s happening?”
He took off his brogues and massaged his feet. “This evening, I’ll be hosting an emergency meeting of a secret invasion committee. We’re tasked with responding to a German invasion to hinder the enemy long term.”
“So you are a secret agent.”
“In a way. Special Intelligence Service. How good are you at acting?”
“I absolutely loved Drama at school.”
“Splendid. You’re going to have to pretend you’re an intelligence officer brought in from Control. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve never been to Birmingham before. You’re from London. Being my cousin is your cover story.”
She turned from the fire, feeling its pleasant glow on her back, kneeling towards him. “Are you sure about this?”
They might ask you a few questions to trip you up, but it’s best to say as little as possible. Be inscrutable. Best thing to do is, if you’re asked a question that stumps you, bat it off with a question. Put them on the back foot. I find if you show enough authority, people will believe you. It’s how I’ve bluffed my way as an officer.” His stomach suddenly gurgled like a pining frog. “I do beg your pardon. I haven’t eaten today.”
“Charlie, you must be starving!”
“We should have some supper before they arrive.”
She followed him to the cramped kitchen. A sink with a curtain underneath, a gas stove, a French dresser. She’d always thought her own family’s house was poor by the standards of most, but this made her dad’s kitchen seem the height of luxury. They had a fridge, a washing machine, fitted units, a toaster, a microwave. These were unimaginable luxuries here. How could you get by without a fridge?
Charlie opened a cupboard in the French dresser to reveal a stash of supplies. It was jammed full of bags marked Sugar, Rice, Flour, and there were about a hundred tins of corned beef, fifty jars of Marmite, tinned peaches, tinned everything.
“For the last few years I’ve been buying up food I thought might get rationed. Ever since you told me there was going to be a war. Corned beef sandwiches?”
She sliced up brown bread and corned beef, remembering how she’d done it with her dad, a lifetime ago. They munched on them with more tea while he filled her in on what the meeting would entail.
“I’m scared that I don’t know anything about this,” she said.
“You know everything. Like you said, you even know how it’s all going to end.”
“But this invasion committee. How can I bluff being a part of that?”
“Because you’re like everyone else. A normal civilian who’s been recruited and given a specific task. We’re all just finding our way in this.”
She chomped on corned beef and gazed at the gas fire’s dull flame. She feared this meeting much more than the sirens outside.
“You have an advantage because this unit hasn’t met before now. It’s our first emergency meeting, so I’m the only one who knows the identities of the group. Er... one of them you will know.”
“Oh?”
“Mary Lewis. Your great-great-grandmother.”
“She’s a secret agent?”
“We recruit a lot of women. Especially old busybodies who know every scrap of gossip in their neighbourhood and strike the fear of God into everyone.”
“Is that what she’s like?”
“I believe the term is battleaxe.”
“But I’ve met her. Back in 1912. She’ll recognize me.”
She told him how she’d sought out the old house and met her ancestor. The confused conversation. The realization that her family’s history was a lie.
Charlie thought about it a while, munching hungrily, washing it down with a slug of hot tea. “She probably won’t remember you. It was nearly thirty years ago. No one remembers a two-minute encounter with a stranger after three decades.”
It was long before he was born, she thought. It would seem ancient history to him. To Rachel it was only three days ago, but he was right: to Mary Lewis it was a distant fragment, probably long forgotten.
Charlie went to the bureau and fished out a leaflet. “This went out to every home. Familiarize yourself with it.”
In thick bold type it said, IF THE INVADER COMES, what to do – and how to do it.
She read through it as he wolfed down his corned beef sandwich, sitting next to her on the sofa.
The Germans threaten to invade Great Britain. If they do so they will be driven out by our Navy, our Army and our Air Force. Yet the ordinary men and women of the civilian population will also have their part to play.
It gave six rules for the civilians to act on. The first was to stay put and not clog up the roads by trying to evacuate, in case it impeded our own army fighting back. Then it instructed them to not believe false rumours spread by the enemy – only trust your local ARP wardens and a policeman you know. The third rule was to report anything suspicious to your local police station.
The whole civilian populace had already been tasked with acting as spies, she realized.
Number four told her: don’t give German parachutists anything: food, maps, vehicles, information. Disable your car if y
ou have to, and five: do not block roads until ordered to. Then there was something about factories organising resistance.
It ended with the words, Think before you act. But think always of your country before you think of yourself.
She looked across at Charlie, brushing crumbs from his khaki shirt, collecting them in his palm. No wonder he’d almost cried with relief when she’d told him there would be no invasion. They had been living with the stress of this. German soldiers marching up to your door and demanding food, maps, petrol. Being asked to disable your car, render your factory useless, while they prodded you with bayonets. And now their planes were flying over and dropping their bombs.
“They’ll be excited. They’ll think it’s codeword Cromwell.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cromwell is the code for a German invasion. Once that word goes out over the wires, everyone in Special Operations Executive, the Secret Intelligence Service, the Auxiliary Units, the Civil Defence Volunteers. We’ll all know the invasion has begun. In September, when the London Blitz started, some fool issued it and caused panic all over the country.”
Her head swam. “This is all really confusing. I don’t know if I can pull this off.”
“Look, it’s quite simple. The committee is a secret group. No one knows about it. Until tonight, none of the members will have known who’s on it, except for me. So you can be as vague and secretive as you like.”
She chewed with worry on a cud of corned beef. The bread was sticky and unappetising. Winnie had been right.
“It’s all a web of secrecy. The Home Office set up Auxiliary Units, groups of six men who will go to war with the Germans. They’ve got secret arms dumps. They’re a self-contained cell. No one knows who they are. They’re only expected to last about 14 days, poor buggers.”
“Sort of like a Resistance.”
“Yes, I suppose you could call it that, but all they will do is hamper the invasion. And once the word Cromwell goes out, they go undercover and no one can contact them. Our committee is intended as a more long term resistance. We don’t go into action until the invasion has happened. We’re normal people who’ve been trained in sabotage and intelligence. To all intents and purposes, this meeting will look very much like a bunch of ordinary civilians.”
“But they’re all secret agents?”
“For the duration of the invasion.”
“An invasion that is never going to happen.”
“I know. I’m almost disappointed.”
The doorbell buzzed, making her heart jump into her throat. She had only been here a day and sudden noises terrified her.
“Here we go,” he said.
She cleared the plates and put them in the kitchen sink while Charlie went to the door. Footsteps plodding up the stairs, low voices.
She came out to face a woman she didn’t recognize, a bitter matriarch in an overcoat and hat, a handbag over her arm, thick pebble glasses. It was like a drop of vinegar in a milk churn: the atmosphere curdled palpably as the old woman marched across the room and looked her up and down.
“Rachel,” said Charlie, “let me introduce you to Mary Lewis.”
— 16 —
THOUGH RACHEL HAD LAST seen her as a stranger in the street three days ago, Mary Lewis had changed too much, her face swollen with envy and bitterness. She tried to match the face with the teenage girl, tracing the 28 years of damage, but she was nothing like the girl in the maid’s uniform who’d shared a few brief words that night.
It appeared she had no memory of the incident, though she shook Rachel’s hand with a firm, bone-crushing grip, and scrutinized her for what seemed a minute.
Rachel held the old woman’s stare and zoned out, looking through her head. A trick she’d learned with bullies at school. It usually unnerved them; they couldn’t tell if you were undaunted or just a little bit crazy.
Mary Lewis huffed and Charlie guided her to the dining table, around which he had placed six chairs. She sat herself at the head.
Rachel went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She’d seen enough tea to last her a lifetime, but while Charlie was answering the door and bringing up the committee members, she wanted to hide from Mary Lewis’s death ray.
She brought the teapot in and found four people sat at the table. Another gentleman, in a senior police officer’s uniform, all black, was taking off his coat and cap. He eyed Rachel with surprise and looked her up and down in a way that Mary Lewis hadn’t: like a wolf sizing up its prey. Tall, blonde hair oiled flat on his head and a thin moustache. Elegant and dangerous. She noticed he wore a pistol in a holster around his waist. It seemed so strange to see a policeman, a British policeman, with a gun.
She squirmed and took the only free seat at the table. Everyone looked around, sizing each other up.
“I guess some of us know each other, but we might introduce ourselves all the same. It falls to me to welcome you all to this inaugural meeting of invasion committee HDS2B13. You all know me. Lieutenant Charlie Eckersley.”
The police office spoke first. “Chief Inspector Clifford Lees.” He took out a silver case and lit a cigarette. No one complained.
“Mrs Mary Lewis. Women’s Voluntary Service.”
“Jimmy Connor. ARP.” He tapped the ARP armband over his suit jacket.
“Councillor Percy Shurmer,” said an older man in a pin-striped suit and jam jar bottom glasses.
Rachel pricked her ears up at his name. Wasn’t there a school named after him in Highgate?
“We would normally have a representative from the fire service,” said Charlie, “but a situation arose last night where it was discovered fire kit has been faulty – perhaps sabotaged, we don’t know – and, well, under the present circumstances...”
From beyond the blackout curtains the drone of planes and the distant sound of explosions.
“Just a moment,” said Clifford. “There’s one delightful creature who hasn’t identified herself.”
All eyes on her. Creature? Was it normal to describe a woman like that? No one seemed to think it strange.
“Rachel,” she said.
She floundered for a fake surname. Hines was no good, as it was the name of Winnie’s husband. Mary Lewis would think it too much of a coincidence and it might trigger off that memory. What would be a fitting name for an agent from Control?
“The name’s Rachel,” she said. “Rachel Bond.”
She grimaced. It would have to do.
“Miss, er, Bond,” said Charlie, “is with S.I.S. in London. She is here on temporary secondment.”
“She’s not your cousin, then?” said Mary Lewis.
“No,” said Charlie. “And I would recommend you cease that idle gossip in your family, Mary.”
“What do you mean? There’s no idle gossip in my family!”
“Then why is your daughter telling Miss Bond, a total stranger, that I might be an intelligence officer?”
Mary Lewis blustered, “Well, she hasn’t heard that from me.”
“It’s just the kind of thing the government are telling us to keep a lid on.”
“Maybe she saw something you left out here–”
“Careless talk costs lives,” Charlie insisted, thumping the table for emphasis.
Mary Lewis shook her shoulders and snorted in disgust. Like her daughter, Rachel noticed, her voice slipped into Balsall Heath when she was angry.
“I must remind you all that, as Special Deputies, our work is governed by the strictest secrecy. The outcome of the war depends on it. No one is to know what we do. Not now, before an invasion, not during, and not even after the war. It’s a secret we take to our graves. Without that secrecy, we’ll be going to our graves much sooner than we expect.”
“Hear hear,” said Percy Shurmer.
“And a damned sight sooner,” said Mary Lewis, “if we meet during an air raid.”
“I should be out doing my bit,” said Jimmy Connor.
“We’ll all be out doing our bi
t shortly,” said Charlie. “This won’t take long.”
“Is it the invasion?” asked Percy.
“Yes,” said Clifford. “We all want to know. Is this Cromwell?”
“Let’s not be hasty about an invasion. The latest intelligence...” Charlie glanced at Rachel and they all followed that glance, as if she were the source of the information, “is that an invasion won’t happen. This is nothing but a bombing campaign aimed at destroying our industry and lowering morale.”
He opened a file before him on the table. A sheet of figures written in a tight hand.
“After a night of bombing like this, it is my intention to apprise you all of the situation as regards the extent of the bombing. An invasion committee should know that. This is the information you won’t see in the press, or hear on the street.”
He gave Mary Lewis a last glare before reading from his figures.
“This is a preliminary report only, but serves to give an accurate picture of what we have faced. Last night’s air raid on Birmingham is the greatest we have yet seen and represents a considerable increase in bombardment by the Luftwaffe. Over 400 bombers attacked the city, dropping around 400 tonnes of high explosives and 18 parachute mines. Casualties are over 400 people dead over 500 badly injured.”
“That’s almost as much as Coventry,” said Mary Lewis. “And there’s nothing about it in the news.”
“We are probably best not served by letting the Germans know how effective their raids are.”
“Yes but, why is Coventry all over the news and not us?”
“Perhaps our armaments factories are more important,” said Clifford. “If Hitler knew what we’ve heard tonight, I imagine he’d dance a jig around the Reichstag.”
“Which is why the strictest secrecy,” said Charlie.