Brighter Days Ahead

by Mary Wood

  For a moment she wished she could take this back, but then she saw a change in the expression on David’s face. ‘I hoped that was the reason. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that day, Molly. I was driving around in the hope of seeing you, the evening we were caught up in the bombing raid. I guessed you couldn’t live far away.’

  She couldn’t speak. The moment didn’t need words. Something invisible had passed between them. They still stood feet apart, and yet it was as if she was in his arms.

  ‘Oh, Molly. I’ve had feelings for you for a long time.’ His beautiful velvety voice took on a much deeper note. ‘I – I wish I could hold you. Would you let me?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ This was said in a whisper as she moved towards him. But for David to hold her was an impossible feat, if he wanted to remain standing.

  She was so near him. Their eyes held each other’s.

  ‘Let’s sit down.’

  The sofa he chose hadn’t looked inviting, when Molly had first come into the room, but she found as she sank into it next to David that it accepted her like a huge pair of soft arms.

  He gently pulled her to him.

  It should have been a moment of extreme happiness, but Molly’s desolation hadn’t left her. A feeling of being where she was meant to be overwhelmed her, and it broke the fragile veil she’d been able to bring down temporarily to mask her pain. Huge sobs racked her body. David didn’t speak, but just offered her his hanky and held her to him. His hand stroked her back.

  It took a while to reach a calm place. When she did so, she started to apologize, but David hushed her. ‘I’m here for you, Molly.’ His fingers followed the trail that her tears had taken, wiping away the remnants of them.

  The grandfather clock broke the spell, and the three chimes it gave brought Molly down to earth. ‘Oh, I’ll have to get back. I – I look after me dad, and he thinks I’m still at the funeral. He’ll see others who attended from our street returning to their homes, and he’ll start wondering where I am.’

  ‘Have that tea first. Tell him you got chatting or something, Don’t leave yet, Molly.’

  She didn’t want to. She never wanted to leave David’s side again, but by now her dad would be drinking, and if his cronies were coming round to play cards, he’d want her to make supper. The last thing she wanted was him in a foul mood tonight.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really have to go.’

  ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘I’ll try, but I can’t get out that often. I’ll do me best to come in a few days.’

  As she went to get up, David pulled her back down. His face came close to hers. His lips pressed gently on her mouth. Molly had never experienced a feeling like the one that trembled through her.

  ‘Oh, Molly, please come as soon as you can. I can’t get out yet, but I’m interviewing a handyman-cum-driver in the next couple of days, so then I’ll be able to come and see you. Where do you live?’

  ‘Sebastopol Road, but don’t come there. Me dad would kill me. Look, he doesn’t get up very early. He drinks a lot and stays down in the cellar, even after the air raid has finished. He had some straw-filled mattresses delivered, and we shake them out and try to sleep on them while the bombs are being dropped. He’s sometimes down there till after ten in the morning. I do a few chores, then walk out to see if there’s anything I can do for folk. I could stand at the top of our road where it meets Fore Street and then, if you can get out, we could meet there.’

  David’s expression showed that he found this strange. But he didn’t protest. ‘All right. Let’s say three days from now. I should have a man employed by then, and I’ll drive round at about nine in the morning. But do your best to try and sort something out so that we can go to dinner; or if you can come round here before then, that would be wonderful. I’m beginning to miss you already.’

  She giggled at this, unable to believe how everything was turning out. She loved the way David could suddenly turn things into a joke by giving a quirky look as he said something ordinary. Kissing him gently on the cheek, she said, ‘I’ll see meself out. Don’t try and get up again.’

  When she got to the door, she turned and waved. His little-boy-lost look tugged at her heart, but also made her smile again.

  Her mood had lightened. Outside, everything looked different, brighter. She’d walk across the park; it would be quicker. And she’d try not to look at the spot where the railings were twisted and broken. This thought made her heart feel heavy once more. Oh, Hettie. Hettie. But then the sound of a bird tweeting made her lift her head and look into the sky. The bird’s excrement landed on her shoulder. A smile curved her lips. ‘All right, Hettie, there’s no need for that!’ A giggle bubbled up inside her, and her sadness lifted. Hettie was watching over her. That would be Hettie’s way of telling her off. Molly could almost hear her: ‘Bleedin’ hell, Molly. Yer got yer man, and all yer can do is mope!’

  A part of her knew she’d always mope when she missed Hettie, but a big part of her knew that Hettie was happy for her, and that helped. She was to go forward. How it would all work out at home, Molly didn’t know, but she would put a brave face on things and keep battling on. Hettie would help her. And so would David.

  Ooh, I just can’t believe it. I have my David at last.

  At this moment, nothing else mattered to her.

  6

  Simon

  Spiteful Talk

  ‘He should never be allowed in uniform. It’s a disgrace!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Kitty. Simon’s the best code-breaker we have. We wouldn’t crack half of the codes without him. Besides . . .’

  Simon tried to step back and go out of the door again without being seen. He’d heard the comment and felt the pain of it, but Jane Downing, a decent sort, had spotted him and stopped in her tracks while defending him, embarrassment burning her cheeks. He smiled at her as he walked through the corridor and within sight of the dozen or so women in Hut 6, the hub of operations at Bletchley Park, where the Enigma messages from the Germans’ army and air force were decrypted. Some of the women looked up at him, but most dropped their heads and looked busy. Simon decided to make light of the situation and try and make them giggle.

  ‘Girlies – darlings – who are we gossiping about today? Do tell!’ A ripple of nervous laughter gave him a feeling of relief. He was sure he’d managed to make them think he didn’t know it was him they had been discussing. Turning towards his own office, a small room at the top end of the hut, he hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but Kitty had other ideas.

  ‘We were talking about you, actually. Your kind are not fit to wear His Majesty’s uniform!’

  Not wanting this to deteriorate into a slanging match, Simon decided to pull rank. ‘Please address me as “sir” or “Officer Fulworth” when you speak to me, Wren Hamlin. And please refrain from speaking about me to others.’

  ‘Huh, you have to earn respect. It’s not—’

  ‘Kitty!’

  Her name, spoken in a warning tone by Jane, did nothing to stop Kitty Hamlin from voicing her hurtful remarks. ‘Well, everyone knows what he is . . .’

  Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Simon asked, ‘Oh? And what are you, Wren Hamlin? Wasn’t that my colleague, the married officer John Perry, I saw you with last night? Giving you a good humping against the wall, wasn’t he, darling? Screaming like a stuck pig, you were, and I wasn’t the only one to see or hear you.’ Wanting to bite his tongue out, he turned away.

  The moment’s silence that followed his remark was broken by a yell that would have made a fishwife proud. ‘What? What are you talking about! I was out with my mum last night – she came to visit me, didn’t she, Jane?’

  ‘Yes, she did, and I did see you go out with her.’

  This was just what he’d wanted to avoid: getting the girls on the side of Kitty Hamlin; especially Jane, who had tried to stand up for him.

  With as much dignity as he could muster, he marched towards his office, b
ut the giggles and the whispered word ‘Faggot’ undid him. Once he was in his office, tears filled his eyes.

  Leaning against the door, Simon gave rein to them for a moment, allowing them to run freely down his cheeks. Their salty taste had him wiping his eyes. What’s the use? Oh, Roland – Roland, if only we could run off somewhere. To a mountain hideaway in a hot country and live in peace.

  Thinking of his visit at the weekend to Roland, the love of his life, Simon pulled out his wallet and took out the photo he carried of him. Kissing it made him feel better and quelled the fear that always clogged his chest when people referred to his homosexuality. No matter what his rank, or his standing here at Bletchley Park, if he was proven to be in a relationship with another man he would go to prison. And so would Roland. It was the main reason for them living so far apart. No one knew him, when he visited Roland. To all intents and purposes, he was just a friend from school days and, in public, they always had Lucinda in tow. And no one knew Roland in London, where Simon had an apartment in the house that his mother had made over to Lucinda and him. They had converted it into two dwellings; Lucinda occupied the five rooms upstairs, while he had the bottom half. It was an arrangement that worked well.

  Unlike the North, where Roland lived, people in London didn’t take much notice of each other’s comings and goings, which made it easier for them to enjoy more private times together, going out to dinner or to the theatre. Precious, snatched time that Simon dreaded this war would take away from them. The recent news of the conscription age-limit being raised had worried him, although, at forty-three years old, Roland had just missed being called up. Nevertheless, there had been talk of that limit being raised again in the future. Oh, God, I couldn’t bear it!

  With his head reeling from a particularly difficult code that it had taken him hours to come up with a formula for, only to find it wasn’t correct, Simon bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. His back ached from standing, jotting down equations on the huge board that occupied one wall of his office.

  A legacy of his childhood, his back pain wasn’t helped by being a tall man. Six foot two in his stockinged feet, he towered above most people he knew. His back had been injured at the age of twelve, when he’d been a boarder at Rugby school. On one of his visits to the town centre, a gang of boys had set upon him. They had called him a ‘nancy boy’ and had beaten him up. When they’d finished with him they threw him down the embankment of the railway line and that had resulted in one of his discs being ruptured. His back had been weak ever since.

  Straightening himself some time later, he realized it was already dark outside. God, what time is it? A glance at his watch told him it was almost nine-thirty. He hadn’t been out of his office since the incident that afternoon, or had a cup of tea or anything to eat. A sudden pang of hunger and thirst seized him. He’d go to the bar for a drink and then call at the canteen and bring something back, so that he could continue working. He didn’t feel like company, and knocking off wasn’t an option. He had to break this code!

  Using the window as a mirror, he tidied himself up. Flattening his hair as best he could, he donned his jacket. As he fastened his belt, he examined his face. What was it about him that gave away what he was? His full, effeminate lips didn’t help. Or his soft blue eyes, framed by long, dark lashes. Or his high cheekbones or his over-smooth skin. He hardly ever had to shave, and when he did it was only to scrape away what would be termed bum-fluff. He had to admit he was the epitome of a pretty boy. Even his slim figure and delicate bone structure had something of the female form about them, though they belied his strength. When he stripped, his torso was strong and muscular. He had great stamina and was athletic. His saving grace at school had been his running ability. He’d brought the championship cup home for the school three years on the trot, and had been in line to be part of the Olympic team. But he’d been sidelined and had always suspected that the rumours about his sexuality were the reason why.

  Giving a sigh that released some of the tension his thoughts had brought about, Simon put it all out of his mind. Outside, the late-evening air had a crisp feel to it. Breathing in deeply, he walked towards Bletchley House and the room that had been converted to offer a comfortable area, much like a gentlemen’s club, for the officers to relax in.

  The usual babble of voices hushed as he walked in. Sensing an atmosphere, his heart thudded against his chest. Looking around, he asked, ‘Anything wrong?’

  Someone coughed, and a voice from one group said, ‘Only that a faggot has walked into the room.’

  ‘Oh, not that old hat. Just found out what one is, have you, Jones? Being one is nearly as bad as being a sheep-shagger—’

  ‘Why, you . . .’

  ‘Now then, that’s enough. I reckon as you deserved that, Davy. As for the rest of you, if any of you want to stoop to name-calling, like a lot of schoolboys, then do it when I am not around. Come and sit over here, Officer Fulworth, you look like you could do with a cup of tea.’

  Grateful for the general’s intervention, Simon went over to the table in the far corner of the room where he sat partaking of a glass of wine. He felt relieved that, as he did so, the others began to chat to each other again and the atmosphere eased. ‘Thank you, sir, but I thought to take some refreshment back to my office. I’ve a particularly sticky problem that I cannot get to the bottom of.’

  ‘Have a break, old chap. All work and no play . . .’ A puff of smoke from the general’s pipe produced a pleasant smell of Old Holborn tobacco. Where the general got his supply from, no one knew or questioned, but the aroma aroused a yearning in Simon to have a smoke himself – something he’d been trying to give up, after finding he was getting more and more out of breath on his morning run. Out of habit, he patted his pockets, even though he knew he didn’t have any cigarettes on him.

  ‘Want one of these, Fulworth?’

  The voice surprised and alarmed Simon, but he nodded and took a cigarette from the packet that John Perry offered. Perry’s eyes locked on his with a steel-cold look that held a warning. Confused, Simon looked away. A heat crept up his neck and flooded his face. Fear tickled his stomach muscles. The click of Perry’s lighter made him jump. The flame from it danced menacingly in front of him. There was no doubt that Perry knew what had happened between him and Kitty that morning. Damn!

  ‘Sit down, Fulworth. You’re shaking like a leaf. You’re working too hard, man.’ This, from the general, broke the frightening spell that held Simon. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs calmed him. He nodded his thanks and sat down, grateful to be off legs that he didn’t think would hold him up much longer.

  ‘Are you experiencing any problems with the rest of the men, Simon?’

  ‘N-no, sir. No, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Let me know if you do. We don’t want you upset, for we need you to concentrate. Oh, I hear things, but you never give any hint that they are true and your behaviour is impeccable. I rather like to think these rumours are because of a certain look you have, and I hope they are unfounded. You have a girlfriend, I believe?’

  Hating having to lie to this man he so admired, Simon nodded. Then he made a joke to cover his discomfort. ‘Sort of, but we hardly ever see each other; maybe that’s as well, though, as she’s a fiery lady and this way we remain friends.’

  ‘Ha, I know what you mean. Absence may make the heart fonder, but it helps to keep the peace, too. You must miss her, though. Where does she live?’

  Wanting to talk about anything but this, Simon shifted in his seat. Passing his half-sister off as his girlfriend didn’t sit well with him. But needs must, and luckily Lucinda wasn’t known to any of his set, as she had been brought up by their mother in India.

  A couple of years after his father’s death, his mother had remarried and Lucinda had come along within the first year of the marriage. Simon had been ten at the time and already in boarding school. His grandfather had taken it upon himself to bring him up. Simon sh
uddered, as memory reminded him of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of this man who should have loved him.

  ‘Are you all right, man? You seem very distracted.’

  ‘I am, sir, sorry – always like this when I have a problem on my hands. Forgive me, you were asking about my sis . . . girlfriend. Lucinda lives in London, so not far away. She’s a journalist. Harbours an ambition to become a war correspondent, but I try to persuade her against it. Seems very dangerous work to me.’

  ‘You were going to say “sister”? Have you a sister or any family, Fulworth?’

  ‘I – I, yes, a younger sister; she lives with my mother in India.’ Oh, how the lies mount up. ‘She’s a half-sister. I haven’t seen her for years. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, hence my mistake. Look, there’s something I want to talk to you about, sir.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘It’s about the meeting we had concerning an assistant for me. I have someone in mind. She’s a northern girl from the lower classes, but she’s had the benefit of a good education and excels in maths.’

  ‘Not our usual type, then. How do you know her?’

  ‘Through a friend. He and I were at university together. He runs evening classes in Leeds, where he lives. Poverty is rife there and although, as I said, the girl is from the lower classes, she had a benefactor who paid for her lessons. She excelled in everything, but in maths in particular. She passed her exams with very high marks. Apparently she was hoping to go to university to become a teacher, but the gentleman who has sponsored her thus far has run short of funds. In any case, it is thought that she’d stand little chance of getting a place. Not that she doesn’t deserve one, but . . . well, you know. Keeping the lower classes down and all that. My friend recommends her highly. Of course he doesn’t know what my work is, but he does know that I’m looking out for a good candidate to assist me.’