by Kim Izzo
“Not that, surely,” his mother teased.
“I do hold out hope,” Edward said, trying to convince himself, “that Brooke and I will one day love each other. I’m not the worst sort of man, you know, she may grow rather fond of me.” He grinned and sliced another piece of cake.
That conversation over tea had taken place before Christmas. Now it was the end of February as he sat at the breakfast table with his mother. His April voyage to America to bring Brooke and her sister, Sydney, to England was drawing near. Edward fought hard not to resent it, but the best he could manage was resignation—he was the family’s only hope for financial recovery and there was more at stake than the walls of Rathfon Hall.
His little sister, Lady Georgina, whom he loved dearly, with her chestnut hair and soft green eyes, was a bright and effervescent girl of eighteen who undoubtedly would have attracted many a suitor had she not been crippled in a riding accident five years earlier and condemned to life in a wheelchair. Edward often worried about what sort of life she would have. Unlike her friends there would be no coming out during the season in London. No dancing. No possibility of children. Her future: destined to play the role of maiden aunt to his offspring. There were worse fates. But crippled and impoverished was a double wound that Edward couldn’t bear to inflict on her if he could prevent it, and it gave him added motivation to ensure that Rathfon Hall would always be here for Georgina to call home.
He abandoned these dire thoughts and decided on a more lighthearted topic. At least that was his intent when he made the suggestion to his mother that he drive his new motorcar—an extravagance he had indulged in once the engagement was settled—to the docks in Liverpool.
“Edward, you can’t be serious,” Lady Northbrook said, her butter knife savagely spreading jam on a crumpet. “Drive to Liverpool? Yourself? Have you asked your father?”
He was about to respond when his father entered the room. “Asked me what?” Lord Northbrook said as he sat down. He unfolded his newspaper and was immediately served tea by a servant.
“I intend to drive the car to Liverpool,” Edward explained. “But I don’t think mother agrees with me.”
“It’s reckless,” she added, and turned to her husband. “What if there’s an accident? And—”
“And I don’t live to marry Brooke Sinclair and get all her money?” Edward teased as he took a mouthful of scrambled egg.
“Don’t accuse me of being unfeeling, Edward,” she responded. Not that her son was completely wrong. “Though to be frank, with all this German high-seas warfare going on I’m not sure you should be sailing at all. Let her come to you.”
Edward was shocked. “Mother, you can’t be serious? It’s fine for the Germans to attack Brooke as long as I’m not with her?”
Lady Northbrook stirred her tea furiously. “What do you say, Duncan?”
Lord Northbrook had a large dark moustache and a receding hairline. He wore spectacles that magnified his blue eyes, his best feature and one he had handed down to his son. As though it was a contemplative aid, he removed the eyeglasses and produced a cloth from his jacket pocket and began to clean them. A manservant came to his side with another cloth but Lord Northbrook waved him off.
“About what? The German threats, our naval capabilities or driving to Liverpool?” he asked.
“Driving to Liverpool,” Edward said quickly, cutting his mother off before she could speak.
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” his father said. Then, satisfied with the clarity of his lenses, he put them back in their place and picked up the newspaper. “Rolls-Royce built it as a touring car and so it should tour.”
Edward grinned. Lady Northbrook shook her head in defeat.
“I suppose this means that Maxwell will ride beside you?”
“Unless I tie him to the roof I can’t see another way,” Edward said cheerfully.
“Valets should know their place,” she insisted even though it was a losing battle. “At least let him drive part of the way.”
“Maxwell will enjoy the rest,” Edward insisted jovially. “He will be run off his feet once we arrive in New York and must keep pace with all those Americans and their way of doing things.”
“If only the Americans would see their way into the war,” Lord Northbrook announced, snapping the page of his newspaper as he turned it.
“We will win it without them,” Edward said proudly.
His father didn’t look up from his paper. “That is doubtful. But mark my words, the Americans will get pulled into the conflict and soon. It’s only a matter of time before the kaiser does something to anger Wilson.”
“And what might that be?” Lady Northbrook asked.
“I don’t know, my dear,” he answered gravely. “But we will know it when it comes.”
“Then we shall be glad to have them,” Edward said.
His father grunted, too buried in his paper to utter anything further. His mother smiled, but it was a forced smile. Her son was getting married and going to war. The latter was a thought that plagued many mothers all over England and across class lines; it was enough to make any parent wish to remain in bed until it was all over. She inhaled deeply as though the air of Rathfon Hall itself would save her.
MARCH 10
Isabel
Spring had come. The spindly tree boughs grew fat with buds. London parks were still the colour of straw but a few crocuses poked through the deadness. Birds were noisy and squirrels thin, but they and every other creature came to life at the first hint of warmth in the air. The gentler breezes also softened the city’s human inhabitants. Women strolled unhurriedly, socializing outdoors and out of earshot of whomever they might be gossiping about. Men wore lighter topcoats and doffed hats at less ferocious speeds than frigid February winds had forced them to. The war was still on the minds of England’s citizens but there was no keeping the freshness of a new season from lightening their hearts.
Isabel sat on a bench beneath a large oak tree on the Mall. She was excited to see spring melt away the sourness of winter. London might be less grey and less lonely in the coming weeks she decided. Her new London life was quite satisfactory. She had grown almost fond of her small but pleasant room in Kentish Town. Mrs. Ogilvie, the landlady, was a stickler for decorum and tidiness. Isabel understood the virtues of both although sometimes she chose to ignore them. But her transgressions were slight compared to those of some of the other girls in the house, who worked in shops or offices, except for one spirited redhead who was a seamstress. They led frivolous existences and smoked cigarettes, drank gin and could be found flirting in public houses. The redhead even shortened the hems of all her skirts above the ankle and offered to do the same for the other girls. Everyone had agreed except Isabel. In truth she envied them a little. She missed frivolity.
But she had her work and that sustained her, that and her colleagues. She admired the men of Room 40 and enjoyed her friendships with the women. Henry occupied a special place however. They rode the bus together nearly each night. He lived in a room in Camden Town. Spending so much time together at the Admiralty and on the trip home they became friends, yet never once did they discuss the letter incident. He had been good to his word. She was happy to have a real friend again but was wary of trusting anyone too much. He could still rat on her if he chose. It was a possibility she tried her best not to give much credence to. After all she couldn’t fathom what would prompt such a betrayal on his part.
By far the most thrilling part of her life was the hours after her shift that she spent helping Rotter and the other code breakers to decipher the wireless transcripts. She had expected more resistance from the men when she first broached the subject of learning. But her basic understanding of Morse code gave her an edge and they certainly needed all hands on deck.
The jumble of numbers and letters were a mess of gibberish at first. It was daunting when she looked at the paper that contained only row upon row of ciphers. She learned that certain letters stood fo
r specific things. Compass bearings, for example, all began with a capital X, time was noted with a Y, and the letter Z was used for locations. So many of the transmits contained an X, Y or Z.
It was painstaking work to refer constantly to the three codebooks. But eventually she would remember certain keys and her keen eye at seeing patterns had proven useful. When she’d first asked Denniston if she could learn more about code breaking he had waffled due to his concern over how it would be perceived by the naval officers, particularly Commander Hope and Captain Hall. Whatever he told them must have allayed any fears about a woman in the role for whenever either man saw her studying the codebooks he made no mention of it.
The code breakers seemed to appreciate another set of eyes. In her mind this extra work made her more than a secretary; she was a junior code breaker (not that she dared refer to herself that way in public). It far exceeded her expectations for meaningful employment; it was Important. Not even George Chambers could have foreseen that his letter of reference would play out this way.
When she returned from the Mall, Rotter seemed relieved she was back. “Isabel,” he said. “I need you to help me with this transmission at once. It’s just come in.” There was an unexpected urgency in Rotter’s tone.
She quickly scribbled down one segment of the cipher onto a notepad and began. She was no match for Rotter; he was so fast. It was her goal to be as skilled as he was one day. He was a very patient teacher and not condescending or put off by her ambition to learn. When she’d started he’d given her a few old transcripts as a test. It had taken her several days but eventually she had done it. It was an achievement unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The men were astonished that she’d done it at all but they seemed pleased, even proud of her. Rotter and the others had bought her a pint at their local pub, the Coach & Horses. She had sipped whisky, a drink her days in Oxford had made her partial to, and basked modestly in the knowledge that she belonged with them.
Isabel focused on the cipher. It was only part of the message but she wanted to get it to Rotter as fast as possible. She had developed an ability to tune out the buzz of Room 40 and hardly took notice of the clang of the typewriters, the conversations between the men—some of it in German. Today was no different from any other, the rush of excitement Isabel got each time she unlocked one letter of the cipher making it a step closer to en clair . . .
“Tea time already?” It was Parish who spoke first when the tray of sandwiches was brought in but soon enough all the men were clamouring. Isabel had her back to the door, busy with her work. She heard only the scraping of chairs on the floor as Rotter, Anstie and Norton, as well as Parish and Henry, moved toward the server who had brought the food.
“Egg mayonnaise, again?”
“That’s devilled ham, Anstie.”
Isabel was famished. Mrs. Ogilvie didn’t approve of her working so late and refused to leave any leftovers from tea. She stood up, eager to grab a sandwich, when Henry spoke out.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” he said.
Isabel saw her then. A very pretty girl with black hair stood by the tea tray. She carried herself with a confident elegance that Isabel thought inappropriate in a servant. One thing was certain; she was the last person on earth that Isabel had ever wanted to see again.
“Today is my first day,” the girl said in that familiar husky tone that Isabel always suspected was put on.
“What’s your name, Miss?” asked Rotter, who appeared smitten. So they all did. Surrounding the girl and grinning like fools as they tore off bites of sandwich.
“What have we here?” Dorothy whispered to Isabel and Violet who had gathered to watch the men fuss over the new tea girl.
“Mildred Fox,” Isabel said, and crossed the room toward her. The men opened their circle to her as though they could sense unfinished business. She saw at once that Mildred was as startled as she was. The two women stood in silence, each waiting for the other to speak first. It was Mildred who cracked, allowing an artificial smile to lighten her expression, grinning at Isabel like they were long-lost friends.
“Why it’s you, Isabel. I hardly recognize you.” Mildred examined her face closely. “You aren’t wearing lipstick and you changed your hair. It’s so respectable.”
The other secretaries had gathered around as well.
“Isabel wearing lipstick?” Violet questioned. It seemed unthinkable.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Isabel said to Mildred.
“Oh don’t be that way,” Mildred said, then addressed the others. “We both worked at the same house in Oxford.”
“Oooh, the famous Mr. Chambers,” Henry teased, hoping to break the tension.
“So you must be an expert typist too?” asked Curtis.
At this Mildred’s wide smile closed tightly and she looked at Isabel. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to type. I didn’t receive the same special attentions that Isabel did.” An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. There was a code between women that not even the cryptographers of Room 40 could decipher.
Isabel looked at the tray of sandwiches with a sniff. “There’s nothing here I want.”
“If you tell me what you’d like I could go down and see if the cook could make it for you,” Mildred said sincerely.
Isabel crinkled her nose. “I’m not very hungry at that.”
“Go on, Isabel,” Henry teased again. “You have enough appetite for two men.”
The men laughed, which horrified her. Mildred stood stone still, the tiniest of smiles on her beautiful face.
“I must get back to work,” Isabel said brusquely, and marched away, nearly knocking over Violet.
“I take it they aren’t close,” Isabel overheard Violet comment to Dorothy.
It wasn’t long before the others resumed their duties. Isabel returned to her cipher, her back to the room and her head buried in the codebook next to Rotter. She refused to turn around again, even as Mildred continued to chat up Henry rather outrageously (in her opinion). It was distracting her from the code. She had to triple-check one line because of it. What a stupid boy he could be. How easily a pretty face beguiled him. He should be working like the rest of us. After what seemed an eternity, though in fact was less than ten minutes, Mildred left the room.
With her gone Isabel felt a rush of panic. How had she found work at the Admiralty? There was only one possible explanation. Mrs. Chambers. Not that it mattered now. The fact was, Mildred Fox was in the same building, working the same shifts. The girl couldn’t be trusted and she despised Isabel as much as Isabel despised her. I’d rather go toe to toe with a German than risk Mildred spreading gossip. No, it wouldn’t do having Mildred around. She was a distraction in too many ways. Isabel left Rotter and cornered Henry at the filing cabinet.
“Be careful, Henry. Mildred is not what she seems,” Isabel warned.
He gave her a puzzled look.
“Go on, don’t be so mysterious. Is she a murderess?” he joked. Isabel rolled her eyes. The fool wasn’t taking her seriously. “What then? A mistress?”
Isabel didn’t have the chance to answer because Commander Hope and Denniston entered the room. They had been gone much of the afternoon in meetings with Captain Hall and Admiral Oliver. Henry and Isabel each raced back to their duties.
“What have we missed, gentlemen? Other than tea.”
The mention of tea made Isabel twinge all over again. She could see from the lengthy handwriting on the notepad that Rotter was nearly finished decoding the message. A cigarette hung from his mouth, the ash so long at the tip it threatened to fall onto the papers he was concentrating on. Then in the nick of time he flicked it into the ashtray.
“Have you finished that bit I gave you?” he asked.
“Very nearly,” she said, feeling stupid for letting Mildred distract her. She had managed the first few letters before the unwanted interruption. There were only a few more to go. She could tell Rotter was anxious for her to be done. She
hurried through, so much so that when she was finished she doubted her accuracy. “This can’t be right. I must have made a mistake.” She gave him her notepad. His eyes widened.
“I will double-check.” He pored over the portion of the message he had given her. Isabel felt terrible about messing up. All because of Mildred Fox. Rotter scribbled out the words on another pad of paper. She admired his mind’s ability to do the job with such speed.
“I’m sorry if I got it wrong,” she apologized but he wasn’t listening to her.
“Commander Hope, sir.” Rotter, his voice urgent, stood waving the handwritten transcript in his hand.
The commander walked over to him. “Anything interesting, Rotter?”
“This just came through. It’s a list of suggestions for the U-boats.”
“Suggestions?”
“Targets.”
Targets? Isabel felt a sudden shiver as though the warm spring air had been sucked out and replaced by ice.
“They’ve been taking aim at some Dutch ships,” Denniston interjected.
“Bloody Jerrys can’t think they’ll do their side much good by hitting neutral ships,” said Parish.
“The first message is about two British merchant ships, sir. The Khim and the Omrah,” Rotter said. “It’s telling the U-boat commanders the two ships will leave London on March 12.” He paused, as though wanting to avoid the truth of what he had to say next. “It’s not just them, Commander Hope, sir,” he continued. “There is a second report to the U-boats directing them to a key target.” Rotter handed the transcript to his superior. “Isabel helped decipher it.”
Isabel was too occupied with the horror of what she’d decoded to notice he had given her credit so publicly. She wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the room studied Commander Hope’s expression as he read the report, searching for a clue as to what it contained. But it was no use. His was the face of a seasoned naval officer and showed no emotion.