The 9

by Madalyn Morgan

  Since she was the last person at Silcott’s to check the work before putting it into the concrete safe, Ena had at first thought it was someone at Bletchley changing a few wires around when the opportunity arose. But at Beaumanor as well? Ena didn’t believe in coincidences. Nor did she think there were two independent saboteurs at work.

  The two engineers at the Park, who were in on the problem from the start, checked every delivery of work against Ena’s diagram before fitting it. On the odd occasion when there were muddled wires, the engineers informed Commander Dalton before quietly getting on with the job of correcting them. Except for Ena, the commander, and the two engineers, no one, not even Herbert Silcott or Freda, was told when there were problems. It was imperative that no one knew when the problems were found and corrected.

  Ena met Commander Dalton every Friday when she delivered new dials for the X-boards. One of the engineers had let slip that the work she did was for a decoding machine. Ena had worked that out for herself while explaining the number and letter confusion the muddled wiring would cause on the day her work was stolen. But because she had never been told officially, she referred to the parts she delivered as being for X-machines, especially when speaking about her sabotaged work to Commander Dalton.

  She had been working on jobs where parts ended up in machines at Bletchley Park for three years, but she still wasn’t privy to the work they did there, still hadn’t been given higher security clearance. It didn’t matter, as she answered to Commander Dalton. There was no one higher.

  Having come to the conclusion that she needed to spend more time at Bletchley Park, Ena rang in sick one Monday morning and caught the 9:45 down there. A couple of Mondays after that, she was off with a head cold, the next time a dental appointment. She also took a couple of days of her annual holiday.

  The extra time spent at the Park was working. She began to recognise people, and they began to recognise her. She got to know several people well enough to say hello and pass the time of day. Some would only smile. On the whole, the people who worked at Bletchley were polite enough, but they didn’t talk about their work. And when Ena asked what they did, they all said the same thing, communications. One too many questions and they clammed up, so she would change the subject.

  Asking too many questions opened the door for whoever was sabotaging the work to befriend her, use her as what Commander Dalton called a mark, or try to turn her into a spy. Good God, what had she got herself into?

  Most of the time, Ena felt as if she was running round in circles. In the crime and thriller books she read, detectives would have had a ‘breakthrough’ by now. She needed to talk to someone, discuss with them what she’d found out so far, but apart from Commander Dalton there was no one. She couldn’t talk to Ben, even though she didn’t think he was involved. She couldn’t tell Henry either, or could she? Ena decided she needed to move things on, and the only way to do that was to get to know more people at Bletchley. And for that, she needed to spend more time there.

  In the first week of July, she asked Mr Silcott if she could take a week of her annual holiday, explaining that with working on Saturdays, and often Sundays, she was exhausted. Her boss agreed that she needed a break, but with several of the single women waiting for their call-up papers to join the WAAF and Auxiliary Ambulance Service, the workforce was thin on the ground. He also said that if Ena was away when work came in from Bletchley, there would be no one at the factory capable of doing it.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Ena said, ‘I’ll telephone Bletchley and if there is any work on its way, and it needs to be completed by next Thursday night, I’ll stay and do it, deliver it on Friday, and take my holiday the week after.’ Herbert Silcott rubbed his chin. He didn’t look convinced. ‘I won’t be going to the seaside or anything. I’ll only go on days out. I’ll ring in every day and I’ll come in if we get a work order for Bletchley,’ she assured him.

  Herbert Silcott said he would telephone Commander Dalton and ask if he was sending any work. Ena crossed the room and put on the kettle. She made tea while she waited for the two men to finish speaking.

  ‘What did he say?’ Ena asked, sure that she knew the answer.

  ‘A courier is on his way. Apparently a faulty X-board from a factory in Shropshire is arriving tomorrow and the commander wants you to look at it, put it right if possible.’ Ena nodded that she understood. She didn’t. ‘Not a lot of work involved, Dalton said, but it’s needed on Friday. You’ll have to put your holiday off, Ena. I’m sorry my dear.’

  The courier arrived from Bletchley with a letter from Commander Dalton. It was short and to the point. X-board to follow. Work as usual. Do nothing to cause suspicion. Deliver on Friday and prepare to return to the Park on Saturday. There is a dance you might like to attend. I have booked a room for you at the Station Hotel on Saturday night.

  Ena whistled. ‘Blimey!’

  Mr Silcott still didn’t allow Ena or Freda to travel to Bletchley Park on their own. ‘Freda will accompany you on Friday,’ he said, ‘I’m not having you carrying top-secret machinery on the train alone, it’s too dangerous.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ena had telephoned the commander during the week to tell him that she and Freda would be at the Park on Friday, and that she needed half an hour on her own. It was important that she got to know a few people, men or women, who were going to the dance on Saturday night. With a bit of luck, someone would invite her to go with them, or at least agree to see her there. So, she explained, since the canteen was the place where almost everyone went for lunch, she thought she’d have her lunch there too.

  She told him that she felt awful going behind Freda’s back. He reminded her that it was necessary – and reluctantly Ena agreed. She felt even worse about going to a dance and not telling her friend. Freda would have told Ena the minute she found out about it. They’d be discussing what they were going to wear by now. Ena sighed. Freda was bound to find out about the dance, but Ena would just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Commander Dalton had said leave it to me, so on that Friday when a Wren brought Freda a message from the commander asking her if she would spare him half an hour, Ena wasn’t surprised.

  Freda dove into her handbag and took out a small satin makeup wallet. After checking her hair in the mirror of a compact, she dabbed powder on her nose and put on some lipstick. Dropping everything back into her handbag, she got to her feet. ‘How do I look?’ Ena gave her the thumbs up. ‘I wonder why he wants to speak to me on my own?’

  ‘He’s spoken to you on your own before, hasn’t he?’

  Freda thought for a moment. ‘Yes, but… Oh!’ She took a sharp breath. ‘You don’t think he wants to talk to me about you, do you?’

  ‘Me?’ Freda’s question had taken Ena by surprise.

  ‘Yes. After you-know-what.’ Freda looked round to make sure the Wren wasn’t listening and whispered, ‘The man on the train.’

  Ena knew that wasn’t the reason, but said, ‘I didn’t think of that... but you never know.’

  ‘See you in half an hour.’ Freda pulled a face, pretending to be scared. Her cheeks were flushed. Worried because she had been singled out, Ena thought. It was usually her that the commander asked to see about Freda, not the other way round. ‘I’ll get myself a cup of tea.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to wait here for me?’

  ‘I feel a bit peckish. I thought I might go to the canteen, get a sandwich,’ Ena said casually. ‘I’ll be back by the time you’ve finished with the commander. And don’t look so worried.’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything when I get back.’

  In the canteen, Ena picked up a tray, took a cup and saucer from a recently washed stack, and poured tea from a big urn. Balancing the full cup, she queued for a sandwich. There was a choice of cheese and pickle or cheese and tomato. She plumped for the cheese and pickle. While she waited in the queue to pay, she overheard an interesting conversation between several women sitting at
a nearby table.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ena said, putting her tray down on the table closest to the women. Three of them looked up at her with mild curiosity, one with annoyance. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Ena said, taking them all in, ‘but did I hear you say your regular hairdresser was off ill?’ The four smartly dressed women in casual but expensive-looking clothes looked at each other. No one spoke. This was not going to be as easy as Ena had first thought. ‘It’s just that I do hair.’ The annoyed-looking woman exhaled and raised her eyebrows. Ena cleared her throat. ‘And, as I shall be here again tomorrow, I was wondering if I could be of assistance?’

  ‘You’re a hairdresser, are you?’ a beautiful woman with hair as black as raven’s feathers and bright green eyes said, smiling.

  ‘Not exactly.’ The annoyed woman shook her head and, looking at Ena with indifference, pushed back her chair and started to get out of her seat. ‘I was before the war!’ Ena spat out the lie for fear it would choke her.

  ‘That’s different,’ the tall one said. The other women looked at Ena now with interest. The miserable one sighed loudly and sat down again. ‘If Marcel has the flu today, there’s not much chance of him being here tomorrow. We could at least give…’

  ‘Ena.’

  ‘Ena a try. I’m off for the rest of the day. Why don’t you come to Hut 23 in say, ten minutes, and have a go on me? Call it a trial run.’ Standing up, the beautiful woman offered Ena her hand, ‘Honor Brinklow. Everyone calls me Binkie.’

  ‘How do you do,’ Ena said, shaking Binkie’s hand.

  Binkie, who looked twenty-five or six, was clearly the leader of the group. She pointed to the others around the table, who had remained seated. ‘Eleanor Woodrow, Woody.’ An attractive young woman with chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and freckles on her nose that were so pale they were hardly noticeable, put up her hand and saluted. ‘Camilla Robertson, Bertie.’ With her peaches and cream complexion, blue eyes and naturally blonde hair, Bertie looked the same age as Woody. Ena thought about twenty-two. Bertie jumped up and shook Ena’s hand vigorously, giving her a warm smile. ‘Last, but by no means least, our very own, Honourable. Lady Arabella Crofton-Dimbleby. Dibbs to all who know and love her. She is always first in the queue when there’s food in the offing, aren’t you, old girl?’

  Dibbs, about twenty-five and not a natural blonde, rolled her eyes good-naturedly and smiled. She was beautiful. She should smile more often, Ena thought.

  Ena tapped the door. No one answered. She tapped again, this time louder, but still no one came. She put her ear to the wood, but couldn’t hear anything, so she walked along to the front of the building. From the outside, Hut 23 looked like all the other huts. It had a low brick wall around it. The green paint was blistering off the prefabricated panels, especially where the wooden frame nudged up to them. She looked through the dusty window. A net curtain hung over the bottom half. She stood on tiptoe but wasn’t tall enough to see over the top of the net. She went back to the door and sat on the low wall.

  Binkie had probably been called back to work, to do something vital for the war effort, and couldn’t get away. Since she’d been coming to Bletchley, Ena had learned about much of the work that went on in the huts. The upper class girls did the important stuff. Some of them worked in the ordinance room, map plotting, calculating and charting where the Luftwaffe were in the skies over England, or where German battleships, like the ones Madge’s Harry had scuttled, were in the sea. Working class girls like herself did more menial jobs at the Park. They worked as secretaries, cooks and waitresses, or cleaners. Jobs, Ena thought, that were just as important if places like Bletchley Park were to run smoothly.

  Ena waited another five minutes and when Binkie still hadn’t arrived, she turned the doorknob and gave the door a gentle push. It opened. Worried that by now Freda would have left the commander’s office and, not finding Ena in the canteen, would come looking for her, Ena stepped into the hut, shutting the door behind her.

  Looking into the room, Ena caught her breath. The other end of the building had been given over to what looked like a hairdressing salon. Against the far wall was a modern hairdryer on a stand. It had a big grey domed metal hood. Ena peered inside. There were holes at the top so the hot air could blow through and dry your hair. Next to the dryer, was a chest of drawers with a hand mirror and a metal hand-held hairdryer on the top. Ena picked up the hairdryer. At one end was a hollow tube, at the other a solid cylindrical black handle with what looked like a brass tap sticking out of the bottom. She pressed the red button on top of its barrel-body but nothing happened, the cable wasn’t plugged in to the electric socket. Holding the hairdryer like a gun, Ena pointed it at an imaginary person and laughed.

  Putting the hairdryer back where she had found it, Ena sat in a high-backed wooden chair in front of one of several mirrors that had been fixed to a long dressing table. Directly in front of her were Kirby grips, metal curlers, and metal wave grippers. No pipe cleaners or rags, which was what some of the girls at the factory used to curl their hair. She eyed the cosmetics with envy. There were half a dozen Cutex nail polishes in various shades of pink and red, a Yardley’s hand cream and face powder, a Max Factor and a Goya lipstick. Ena twisted the outer case of one lipstick and pulled a bright red lipstick from it. Tempted, but not daring to try the colour, she slipped it back into its case. Whoever it belonged to had money. A lipstick like that would cost seven or eight shillings.

  On the far wall were two hand-basins – a bar of Lux soap on one and Pears on the other. Above them shampoo and conditioning cream.

  She looked at her watch. Freda would definitely be out of the interview with the commander now. Ena began to worry, but was quickly distracted by a clothes rail, the kind she saw in the smart dress shops in Coventry and Leicester. She jumped up to explore. The rack overflowed with elegant gowns for the evening, fashionable day clothes, and a selection of party dresses – high fashion and popular for occasions like the dance tomorrow night.

  Next to the clothes rail was a table with a sewing machine, next to that an iron and ironing board. On the other side of the rail was a shoe rack packed with a dozen or more pairs of shoes. There were styles and colours for every occasion.

  Ena jumped. ‘Binkie? I didn’t hear you. I hope it was all right for me to come in. The door was open.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Binkie sat at a mirror. ‘I’ve just been called back to work. One of the girls has gone off sick and I’m covering the rest of her shift.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Better get cracking.’

  Binkie’s hair was clean, but a little too conditioned for the style Ena had planned. But with a card of Kirby grips to hold it in place, the result was better than Ena had hoped. Swept up into an off-centre parting with two rolls of hair on top, and two at the side, and a velvet ribbon tied at the back, like a highway man’s pony tail in the nape of her neck, Binkie’s hair looked the height of fashion.

  Binkie loved her new hairstyle. Ena thought it was as important that she saw it from the back, so gave Binkie the hand mirror, and held her breath. Binkie looked in the small mirror, turning her head this way and that to see her hair from every angle, and was delighted with it. Ena was too, and exhaled loudly.

  Now all I have to do is get myself invited to the dance, she thought. She had enough money for the bus fare to Rugby and a return ticket to Bletchley – she would be given expenses to cover the transport costs eventually. And she had a room at the Station Hotel, courtesy of Commander Dalton. She doubted that the money for the hotel, and her expenses, came out of the commander’s pocket, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Binkie, I don’t want to keep you,’ Ena said, as Binkie was putting on her coat. ‘But is the dance tomorrow night only for people who work at Bletchley?’

  ‘Yes, darling, so you’re entitled.’

  ‘But I don’t actually work at the Park.’

  ‘Technically you don’t, but you’re here so often that no one would question your eligibility. And you have a pas
s, so you’ll be seen as just another worker bee among the thousands of bees who toil here for the greater good.’ Binkie laughed. ‘You’ll be here anyway, making the girls look ravishing.’ Ena pressed her lips together; she wasn’t sure she dare just turn up. ‘Bring something to change into, or borrow something.' Binkie pointed to the dresses on the clothes rail. ‘If you are stopped and questioned, which I’m sure you won’t be, let slip that you’re a friend of the Honourable Lady Arabella Crofton-Dimbleby. Dibbs’ Pa has a lot of clout around here, they wouldn’t dare turn you away if they think you know Lord C-D.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Lady… Dibbs is that keen on me. Couldn’t I give your name?’

  ‘Sorry, darling, no can do. I shall be otherwise engaged with an extremely handsome cryptographer.’

  Binkie talking about a cryptographer reminded Ena of Henry. ‘Ah! I’ve just had a thought. I have a friend who works here. I might be able to persuade him to partner me.’

  ‘I hope he’s not my cryptographer,’ Binkie said, taking a bright red lipstick from her handbag and applying it to taught lips. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Henry Green.’

  ‘Henry? Definitely not my cryptographer, thank goodness. How do you know old Highbrow Henry?’

  ‘He’s a family friend. My oldest sister Bess used to walk out with him.’

  Binkie shot Ena a look of astonishment. ‘What? Were they sweethearts?’

  ‘Yes. There was even talk of them marrying. But my sister wasn’t ready to settle down at the time. She went off to London, to teacher’s training college, and Henry went to Oxford, but they stayed friends.’

  ‘Well I never. Old Highbrow hasn’t always batted for the other side, then? He certainly appears to now. I have never seen him with a girl and let me tell you that a chap as scrummy to look at as Henry Green would be fighting them off if he wasn’t… Come to think of it,’ she mused, ‘in the three years that I’ve worked here, I have never seen him at a dance. Nice enough chap. And you’ll be as safe as houses with him. Must dash,’ she said, admiring herself in the full-length mirror as she passed it. ‘I bet you ten bob you won’t get Highbrow to the dance tomorrow night.’