Amy gazed off for a moment. ‘And yet – there’s almost certainly a woman out there who’d be delighted to receive Mr Woodcock’s attentions.’
‘I know,’ Jo conceded. ‘God help her.’
She glanced at her wristwatch.
‘Goodness, the time! It’s nearly seven. Come on, we don’t want to get caught in the blackout.’
Jo stood up quickly and hurried out to fetch their coats. When she returned to the office Amy was still kneeling on the floor, frowning over a form.
‘Amy, for crying out loud! We must go.’
She was right, Amy knew; the city had taken a terrible pounding in recent weeks. They had cowered at the steady death drone of planes coming from the south-east. There was no sound like it. And yet that fear in the pit of the stomach, the fear it might be your turn – she didn’t feel it tonight. What was wrong with her? Outside, Mayfair was huddled in darkness. Windows and fanlights had a poked-out look. Only the pavements still glimmered from the day’s rain; moonlight had picked out the puddles.
‘A bomber’s moon,’ Amy said, as they quickened their steps towards Bond Street Tube.
Jo gave a little shiver. ‘What a macabre phrase. You know, walking past these old buildings I’ve been trying so hard to memorise them, in case they’re not here the next day. But then I forget, and I’ll come across a new lot of damage and not have a clue what’s been lost.’
‘I wonder how much longer it can go on. Strange, there are still people who believe we should make peace with Hitler – they say he really wants England as an ally.’
‘A bit late for that, I should have thought. Who are these people anyway?’
‘Oh, nobody I know. That man I met today – Mr Hoste – he told me there’s quite a few who think suing for peace is the only way to end it.’
‘Sounds like wishful thinking.’
Amy shrugged. ‘He says that Germany wants a settlement, and that the real enemy is Russia.’
‘But how does he know this? I thought you said he was an inspector for the Revenue.’
‘He is. But he seems to know an awful lot about – well, everything.’
Jo gave Amy a look that suggested she had more to say on the matter, but their arrival at the Tube entrance curtailed further talk.
‘Goodnight, Amy dear,’ she said, touching her cheek before she descended the steps. ‘Be careful.’
Amy continued on her way through the blacked-out streets. The sirens had started up their protesting wail. By the time she reached her flat on Queen Anne Street she thought she could hear the distant buzz of the bombers’ engines. But it was only her senses playing tricks on her. Later that evening, when the sound became unmistakable, she peeked through the blackout blind in her living room. Searchlights had lit up the sky, their long fingers sweeping the horizon. She thought again about Hoste, who would be out there now, on duty. His self-possession, rather unsettling close up, would be very useful in a raid, she supposed. You wouldn’t feel so panicky with him at your side. Any minute now the ack-ack guns would cough into life. To the west she saw the pale moon hanging there, and she wondered how something that beautiful could be so fatal.
5
Unlocking a hidden drawer, Hoste took out a scroll of paper and spread it across the desk. It was a detailed blueprint of the RAF’s new Mosquito night fighter. The focus was smudged here and there – whoever had operated the mini-camera was no expert – but otherwise the copy was quite legible.
They were in his office on Chancery Lane, where from below came the sound of rubble being cleared. Hammond had been leaning over the desk to scrutinise it. Her silent absorption fascinated Hoste: the way her gaze pored over the document was positively carnal. A minute or more went by before she relaxed her shoulders and glanced up.
‘No doubting it. This is the real thing,’ she announced.
‘I never did doubt it,’ replied Hoste with a faint smile.
‘Clever of you to find Mr Kilshaw. We must keep hold of him.’
Kilshaw, family man and Rotarian from Bushey, Herts, had somehow got his hands on a bona fide piece of sensitive material. It had everything but TOP SECRET stencilled across its face.
Hammond sat down again, her expression still clenched in thought. After a moment she said, ‘Does anyone at de Havilland know there’s a leak?’
Hoste shook his head, and sensed her satisfaction. Tessa Hammond, senior member of the Section, was in her mid-thirties. She projected a critical beadiness that would sharpen of a sudden into acerbity. The first time he had met her, six years before, he recalled some bland remark he had made being pounced on by her. ‘That’s a very conventional way of looking at it,’ she had said haughtily; it had made him cautious around her ever since. Yet he liked her, even admired her. Her dark shoulder-length curls framed an oval face that was carefully – perhaps too carefully – made up; the application of powder and lipstick felt somewhat effortful, as if she were trying to conceal rather than enhance something. Her figure was good, and she knew how to dress. But behind her capable front Hoste thought he discerned a brittleness. He had heard stories of her romantic failures.
She was looking at him in a quizzical way. ‘That jacket you’re wearing … Have I seen it on someone else?’
‘Traherne lent it to me the morning I was bombed out. I tried to return it the other week but he insisted on my keeping it.’
‘Hmm. I can see why. Rather suits you.’
From the street rose a noise like the seething hiss of a wave – glass being swept up from the pavement. Holborn had been a major casualty of the raids. Hoste went out to make a pot of tea. On returning he found Hammond studying the photograph Castle had given him, the one of Marita with Amy Strallen.
‘So which of these is your woman?’ she asked.
‘If by that you mean Miss Strallen, she’s second from the right.’
Hammond screwed her eyes a little, and said with a sniff, ‘Pretty.’
‘I suppose she is,’ he said mildly.
‘Can she be recruited?’
He tipped his head back. ‘Not sure. She knows Germany – visited Berlin and Nuremberg with Marita in ’34 or ’35. I haven’t probed the politics yet.’
‘I see. And … how old?’
‘If you’re that curious you can meet her yourself. She’s due to call here any minute – said she has something for me.’
Hammond returned a knowing look. ‘Better not. I don’t want to queer your pitch, now you have your claws in.’
Hoste sighed. ‘You make me sound rather predatory. I assure you, the lady has suffered no clawing – or pawing – from me.’
They talked on for a while, mostly about last night’s raids, until they heard a ring at the door below. Hoste made claws of his hands in a gesture of wolfish menace, and Hammond, with a smirk, took her leave.
Amy, stepping off a bus on Fleet Street, had found Chancery Lane heavily knocked about by the night’s bombing. The raids had lasted nearly until dawn, and she had listened to them from the basement at Queen Anne Street. At times the thud of the bombs seemed very near, and the walls of the building had trembled from the shockwaves. When she left the flat this morning the air swarmed gritty from the dust and debris.
On her way up the stairs of his building she passed a woman whose candid once-over nearly stopped her in her tracks. Hoste’s office was located at the end of a corridor. He stood up to greet her. It had been a couple of weeks since they’d run into one another at the Myra Hess concert.
‘I’ve just passed a lady on the stairs – do you know her?’
‘Ah. Dark hair, about so tall? – yes. A colleague of mine.’ He invited her to sit down. She looked around her; it seemed awfully tidy for a government office. She noticed an adjoining room through an open door.
‘Looks like this place had a lucky escape last night,’ she said, gesturing with her eyes at the chaos outside.
‘That’s what I think most nights,’ he replied. ‘How goes the marriage market?’
She detected again that sceptical note in his voice when he asked about her job. It made her wonder why he had ever applied to the bureau in the first place.
‘As a matter of fact we’ve been getting more business than we can handle. Marriage has never seemed so à la mode.’
‘Despite the mood of gloom?’
‘Or maybe because of it. Johanna – my colleague – thinks that the war has made people reconsider their priorities. They look at marriage as a kind of insurance against disaster.’
‘There may be something in that,’ he said thoughtfully. He renewed his gaze upon her. ‘So you mentioned that you had news …’
She pulled a dubious expression. ‘Well, I wrote to Mrs Florian, as I told you. I received her reply yesterday. She said Bernard has been interned in the Isle of Man. Marita, last she heard, was living in Ireland – but she’s not been in touch for over a year.’
‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’
Amy looked at him in surprise. ‘About Marita? Why ever would she not be?’
‘She may be covering for her. Marita’s half German, so she may fear internment herself.’
After a long pause she said, ‘It must be a lot of money they’re owed for you to be pursuing them like this.’
‘I can’t be specific about the sum, but – yes, it’s a fair amount.’ Hoste steepled his fingers together. ‘I’ve been wondering about Marita, actually. When you knew her, was she very … fanatical?’
She considered the question. ‘She was certainly interested in Germany, and Hitler. It had always been her plan to go to Nuremberg.’
‘What did you think of her views?’
‘Her views about what?’
‘Well. The Jews, for instance.’
Amy stared at him. It seemed as though he wanted to provoke her into an argument. ‘I’m not sure what this has to do – you must understand, I haven’t seen Marita in years. I don’t know what she’s been up to since. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you.’
Hoste softened his tone. ‘And I’m sorry to pry. I become rather fixated at times. Forgive me.’
Mollified by this, she smiled. ‘Don’t worry. You take your work seriously. That’s a good thing.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Some of my colleagues aren’t so understanding.’
‘Like the lady I passed on the stairs?’
‘Just so. I’m thought of as the department’s bloodhound.’
She glanced at her watch, and rose. ‘I should go. But here, there’s something I want to give you.’ She reached into her handbag and took out a slim package, cased in brown paper.
He looked startled as she held it out to him. ‘For me?’
‘It’s nothing much, just – well, open it.’
He undid the string and slowly unwrapped the paper. He stared at what lay there – a small framed pencil sketch, about four inches by six, of a mountain range. He was silent for so long she thought he was embarrassed by it.
‘It’s of the Tyrol. You remember, we talked about it –’
‘Of course I remember,’ he said, though he still seemed in a kind of trance. She had found the thing in an antiques shop in Marylebone. It was modest but pretty, and she had paid ten shillings for it.
‘I thought – I hoped – it might be something you’d like,’ she went on, not quite sure any longer.
He nodded slowly. ‘It’s … delightful. And exceptionally kind of you.’ His gaze lifted from the picture, and he smiled.
‘When you talked about summers in Austria and how you wouldn’t see another for years, it felt so sad. It isn’t much of a substitute, but at least when you look it may remind you …’ She didn’t add that it would at least do something to brighten his dismal billet.
A few minutes later, as he was showing her out, Amy said, ‘So what now? Is the Pardoe file closed?’
‘Oh, I dare say we’ll keep an eye out. The Revenue never sleeps.’ His tone became coaxing. ‘If in the meantime you happen to –’
‘Yes?’ She had a sudden inkling he was going to ask her to dinner.
‘– come into contact with Mrs Pardoe, do let me know.’
She reproached herself. This one was a professional to the last. They shook hands, and she left.
On her way back through Soho Amy stopped at an Italian grocer’s on Berwick Street. She bought a pitiful sliver of sausage meat, a few tomatoes and a small wedge of cheese – the ration was beginning to pinch. All the shops looked starved. War had cleaned them out.
As she was leaving the place she saw a notice in the window announcing ‘The proprietors of this shop are British subjects, and have sons serving with the British Army’. It reminded her that she had not called recently on the Pruckners, a middle-aged German couple who lived in the flat below hers. The previous summer, when paranoia about ‘enemy aliens’ was at its height, the couple had suffered grievously. Despite being resident in England for the last fifteen years Paul Pruckner and his wife Gertrud were targeted under Churchill’s directive to round up Germans, Austrians and Italians more or less indiscriminately. They were sent to an internment camp in the north-west. Their son, a journalist of leftish sympathies, was considered a security risk and packed off on a ship of internees to Canada. The trials of separation had exacerbated the mother’s heart condition, though the family’s plight cut no ice with the authorities. When Mr Pruckner was finally released he had asked Amy, his neighbour, for help in seeking information about their deported son.
Of course she had done what she could, wrote letters to the relevant offices, and eventually word came back that the son was safe, albeit on the other side of the Atlantic. Yet Amy still felt indignant on the Pruckners’ behalf, and embarrassed that they should be so grateful for her small act of charity. Out in public, their German accents had made the couple objects of contempt. They had been taunted, shunned, spat at. She had thought of them again during this morning’s interview with Mr Hoste. It was hard to tell if he approved of the present treatment of émigrés or not. He had seemed fascinated by Marita and her allegiance to Hitler – though that was before the war, when it was still acceptable to talk about Germany as a civilised country. She couldn’t imagine that Marita, even with her ‘fanatical’ temperament, would be one of those who still regarded the Reich as a friend.
But then, how could she know? She tried to remember their holiday together in Germany back in ’35. The signs of hostility against the Jews were too prominent to ignore: the graffiti, boarded-up shops, notices in public places forbidding their entrance, the sense of a whole society turning its back on former neighbours. At the time it had struck her as a matter of curiosity. In Nuremberg, at the rally, they had watched the marching and the displays of military might. They had even joined in the Nazi saluting, because it didn’t signify anything. She hadn’t connected it then with a war machine that would try to bomb them into oblivion. Naive of her, she realised now. Back in England Marita had stepped up her involvement in Fascist politics once Bernard came along, and the ties of friendship began to loosen. Yet even then she didn’t consider Marita a true anti-Semite; she had joked about the Jews, deplored their ways, but so did many other people she knew.
She had crossed Regent Street and was idly glancing into a shop window when a distant reflection loomed in the glass. She turned round to look. Strange, but she thought she had seen that man’s coat earlier in the day. The man himself had turned on his heel, without showing his face, and was lost again in the crowd. Had he been following her? She would have dismissed it as coincidence, only she had felt her footsteps being dogged on other occasions recently. She was a good noticer of things, especially of clothes – a combination of blue worsted coat, striped tie and trilby might imprint itself for a few seconds, and however unexceptional she would be able to recognise it again hours later.
But why would anyone be following her?
It was a question Johanna naturally asked when Amy voiced her suspicion later that evening. They were ha
ving a meagre supper at Amy’s flat.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But it isn’t the first time I’ve felt it of late.’
‘Is it the same man?’
‘I’m not sure – I really can’t tell.’
‘It sounds very queer, darling.’ Jo paused a moment, uncertainty in her eyes. She then said in a changed voice, ‘Didn’t you say you were meeting that chap again – the one from the Revenue?’
Amy nodded. ‘I thought I might be able to help him with some information, but it didn’t work out. You remember me telling you he was bombed out a few weeks ago? Well, I bought a little sketch for him – as a housewarming present. He doesn’t have much else.’
‘Nice of you. Did he like it?’
‘I think so. Yes. Though he didn’t overwhelm me with thanks.’
A knowing smile had tweaked Jo’s mouth. ‘But worth persevering with …’
‘Maybe. I have a feeling our acquaintance doesn’t matter to him one way or the other. Something rather monkish there – one can almost imagine him living in a cell.’
Jo sighed, shook her head. ‘Look at us. We run a marriage bureau, matchmake people Monday to Friday, yet neither of us with a man of our own. Not a good advertisement!’
Amy laughed. ‘I suppose it’s like being an outfitter. You know what looks nice on other people but can’t always find the right thing for yourself.’
After supper they sat in front of the open window and had a cigarette. Amy had kept her ears pricked for the sound of planes, but all had been quiet. It seemed that London was to be spared this evening. The German air force had been concentrating its recent attacks on cities further north. It was a respite, but not one she could feel sanguine about; it would be their turn again soon enough.
Amy had received that morning a letter from Bobby, best friend and indefatigable partygoer, now stationed up in Scotland with the WAAF. Bobby’s latest story of romantic entanglement, this time with a Scottish laird named Angus, had so tickled her that she recited it to Jo.
‘I love this bit where she talks about dancing a reel – “Angus and I went at the thing so wildly that my suspender belt snapped in the middle of it! Front suspenders only, thank God – so I carried on regardless, like a plane on one engine.”’
Our Friends in Berlin Page 5