The Face of Eve

by Betty Burton

  ‘I am to work in an office then, sir?’

  David Hatton had looked at her over the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses and smiled. ‘Did you expect you’d get your invisible ink and a morse-code ditter straight-away, Miss Anders?’

  ‘You’re making fun of me… sir, but I did expect that I would be sent for training or something.’

  ‘We are all at the training stage.’

  From which she suspected that The Bureau might not yet have an up-and-running training plan.

  ‘The small group of people you will be working with, Miss Anders, are as new to The Bureau as yourself. Each one of you will have a differing task. Your own is to judge which, if any, of them would provide a risk to security.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any suggestions as to what you will look for?’ She’d been shocked at the idea of spying on her colleagues, but she’d answered, ‘Egotists, and egoists, gossips, blabbermouths, anybody whose drinking goes beyond sociability.’ She’d paused then, not looking at him because she was pondering; said, ‘I would keep my eyes and ears open for anything that didn’t quite add up, accents that don’t fit the picture.’

  ‘Yes, good, Miss Anders. Perhaps you could expand on that a little.’

  ‘Well, sir, supposing one of the group isn’t quite what they appear. They make little mistakes, nothing much, a hint that they might not be everything they present to the world… their past is questionable.’ She had not raised her eyes, but drawn her brows and held a finger to her lips as though she was still considering his question, waiting for his response. He’d remained silent. After long moments she’d slid her glance in his direction, but his eyes had not met hers as he concentrated on doodling what she’d at first taken to be hieroglyphs but then realised were notes. She had taught herself a little of the ‘Gregg’ version of shorthand, which was sinuous and flowing. His configurations were angular and minuscule.

  ‘I didn’t know you wrote Pitman, sir.’

  He’d looked up and given her his old, devastating smile. ‘I do, Miss Anders. I have always been grateful that I was persuaded to take a few evening classes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I interrupted.’

  ‘No, I think we have finished here. Any questions?’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. May I ask whether we are all compiling reports on one another?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say that each of you will have differing tasks. Interview over.’ He had pressed a button on his desktop and nodded to the clerk, who left the room.

  Eve started to rise from her chair. ‘May I go now, sir?’

  ‘I’d like it if you stayed for a glass of something.’ Once the clerk had retreated, her immediate senior officer had become David again. ‘Though God knows what, Eve. Sherry? I’m sorry, but this office doesn’t run to much else. Gin, but no Indian. Camp coffee, tea without milk – and that’s about it.’

  She’d hovered between wanting to stay but knowing she should go if she was to maintain the proper distance between them now that she would be working under him. But it was for him to be making that kind of rule, wasn’t it?

  ‘Is my response going to be written up in your Pitman notes?’

  He’d got up, come over to her side of the desk and sat on its edge, his body keeping a formal distance, but the look in his eyes invading. ‘I said that the interview was over.’

  His behaviour had been unforgivable in Spain. Their relationship went back a long way, with highs and lows, twists and turns. He had dug into her past at the time when they had first met and she had been like Cinderella at the ball, dancing till midnight and then disappearing.

  When they’d met again and she had become Eve Anders, he couldn’t leave it and had gone on to uncover Lu Wilmott.

  Now suddenly it had seemed childish to keep refreshing her pique every time she was with him. She’d returned his smile. ‘Thanks, David, I’ve had worse drinks than gin without.’

  ‘Good.’ He’d held up the bottle. ‘Beefeater?’

  ‘Looks good to me.’

  The tots he’d poured had been sensible – generous but less than doubles. He’d touched glasses with her. ‘Here’s to a sparkling new career for you.’

  ‘Thank you… David. Am I to take it that I’m in your sector?’

  ‘Are you still Republican?’

  ‘Are you?’

  He’d grinned. ‘I managed to swear an Oath of Allegiance.’

  ‘Then so could I.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Raising his glass he’d said, ‘Here’s to George. May he be the last of the line. How will that do?’

  Grinning, she’d said, ‘I’ll drink to that. Until that day, I promise I will do everything in my power to see that no fascist usurps him.’

  ‘Nicely said, Eve. You’ll make a bloody good and devious member of The Bureau.’

  There had been a short silence, not awkward, as they’d accustomed themselves to the renewal of their relationship. Eve had idly followed the wire that led from the button on his desk to a black box showing a small red light. When she’d returned her attention to him, he’d been watching her. The interview had been recorded. She’d raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. It didn’t matter. What did she expect if she wanted to belong to this maverick branch of the Ministry of Information?

  Rewarming their relationship had left them only the new Spain to talk about with any ease. He’d asked about the children, and what they looked like now they were recovering. She’d told him about the generosity of the Lavender family. The naked gin hadn’t gone to her head as she had expected, but she’d refused a second. He’d walked her to the door.

  ‘David? I do know the meanings of ‘different’ and ‘differing’.’

  He’d turned off the recording machine. His smile had become a grin as he’d put his arm briefly about her shoulders and squeezed – gently, friendly. ‘That’s my girl.’

  She’d stiffened at his familiarity.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s one thing I’m not. I’m your junior officer. Different assignments mean just that, but differing… ? This group I’m assigned to – same task but differing because we will all have our own version of one another. Right?’

  He’d given her an unsure smile.

  ‘Don’t ever try to do me a favour, David.’

  * * *

  The bus felt damp and smelled musty, the crisscrosses of blast paper over the windows made the interior dim. There were already a number of people waiting but nobody spoke more than a polite mumble. With the last recruit on board, the driver got in, the engine rumbled and they drew away. Destination unknown.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ Eve took the firm hand directed at her. ‘Wilhelmina de Beers for the record, DB to my friends.’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks, DB. Eve Anders. You’re South African?’

  ‘Born and bred. You recognise the accent – how come?’

  ‘I’ve spent a couple of years in – working with people from the four corners of the earth.’

  ‘Go on, see if you can say which part. Cape? Jo-burg? Durban?’

  Eve laughed, trying the young woman’s accent. ‘Hey, min, I’m not thet goowd. Oi say maybe Ifrikawna?’

  DB laughed with delight. ‘Man, you’re good. Right, I’m a Boer but never a bore.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Yeah, well… I’ve been called worse, but only behind my back or they’d get a fist in the teeth.’ She laughed again, showing almost all her whiter-than-white teeth. ‘Not seriously… not in the teeth, hurts your knuckles. Maybe a fist in the gut. I’m quite proud of having Voortrekker blood. But, who’d ever know, it’s so mixed up with my trekker ancestors – the old trekkers got on pretty good with Zulus and Bushmen – Bushladies I should say – I guess that’s where I get this hair.’ She didn’t mention her skin colour, which was a beautiful, blooming café au lait.

  DB removed the ski-cap from which sprang a mass of corkscrew curls shiny, bla
ck and memorable.

  ‘Have you a clue where we’re going?’ Eve asked.

  ‘Naw, I tried sweet-talking the driver, but he’s been issued with a lip-zip.’

  ‘I guess we will be too. Is Wilhelmina de Beers your real name?’

  ‘Hey, is Eve Anders yours?’

  ‘Touché. I just meant… you know… with de Beers being the diamond family…’

  A young man’s face appeared round the side of the high-backed seat. ‘Hello there. Paul Smyth-with-a-Y, pronounced Smith – my family practises reverse snobbery.’ He had a wide, open grin. Standing in the aisle he shook hands briefly, then squatted to be at their level. ‘All in the same boat here. Sooner we get to know one another, the sooner we shall get to know one another… if you get my drift.’

  He was of middle height, with a broad, kindly, open face, crisp brown hair, nice eyes with smile lines at the corners, straight mouth with a full lower lip. Not exactly nondescript, but the type that wouldn’t catch much attention in a crowd. Unlike attention-catching Wilhelmina with her jet-black corkscrew hair, and dark eyes set in a striking high-cheek-boned face.

  Paul Smyth pointed a finger jokingly at Wilhelmina. ‘This lady is Miss de Beers all right. I’ll vouch for that. I’ve seen you perform, Miss de Beers. It was memorable.’

  ‘Really? Nice of you to say so. I never thought of any performance of mine as memorable.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be modest. You weren’t sitting where I was sitting. Honestly, Miss Anders, this lady’s got a voice like nobody you ever heard. Well, that’s not quite true. If you ever heard Billie Holiday, she’s a second Billie Holiday.’

  ‘Aw, if only that was true. She is so amazing. Have you heard her for real, Paul Smyth-with-a-Y?’

  ‘Oh, have I! I was there in Greenwich Village the night she first sang ‘Strange Fruit’.’

  DB’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really! At the Café Society?’

  ‘My God, yes,’ Paul said. ‘Even thinking about it, the hairs on my neck rise. Wow! That song knocked us all sideways, didn’t it? I thought nobody was going to applaud, so I did…’

  ‘That was you? Man, you certainly whipped up a storm. It was super. I tell you, Eve, you had to be there to know what it was like.’

  ‘I wish I had been. I’m a real fan of hers, and Ella Fitzgerald’s.’

  Paul made a gesture that said everything. ‘If you’re a fan of Ella and Billie, then you will be of DB. You followed Ella the night I first heard you sing.’

  ‘Oh yeahhhh.’ She faced out both palms and wiggled her fingers. ‘I sure was an acceptable nigra that night.’

  These three appeared to be the only ones to have tried to get acquainted as the coach lurched through the disturbed streets of London. Along the entire route of the journey were gangs of men filling bags with sand and building them into buttresses against bomb-blast; digging out earth in open spaces to build underground bomb shelters; slow convoys of low-bed army lorries bringing anti-aircraft guns to the centre of London.

  Eventually the coach came to a halt, and all heads were turned to the windows. A voice from the front of the bus said, ‘I say, what d’you think. They’ve brought us to the Scrubs.’

  There was an apprehensive silence, then everyone scrambled to a window.

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I say, driver, are you sure this is where you are supposed to be taking us?’

  Not even bothering to turn round, the driver just nodded.

  Wilhelmina de Beers kneeled in her seat and looked out. ‘What’s the Scrubs? Looks like poky to me.’

  Paul Smyth answered, ‘You’re right, it is – has a reputation for being hard.’

  The bus door opened, and a tough-looking man in army uniform came aboard and asked for names. ‘All present and correct, driver. You can go on through. Return to your seats, ladies and gentlemen. And before anybody asks, yes, this is Wormwood Scrubs Prison, and yes, this will be where you’ll be working for the next number of weeks. Make the best of it, ’cause let’s hope this is the last time you’ll find yourselves in jug. Leave your bags and cases on your seats, they will be delivered to your accommodation. Anybody not got tied-on labels? Good, good, you followed instructions… let’s keep it that way.’

  Inside the dour building, where electric light was on but poor, the entire complement of ten were gathered and kept waiting for five or more minutes in a reception area where at one time, presumably, new inmates had checked in. DB, Paul and Eve stuck together.

  ‘Hey,’ DB said, ‘what a lark if they fit us out in uniforms with arrows!’

  Eve, infected by her new-found colleague’s unwillingness to be sober, added, ‘And give us bags marked “Swag” to keep our possessions in.’

  ‘And hob-nailed boots,’ Paul added.

  From somewhere behind them a woman’s voice said low, but clearly meant to be heard, ‘I don’t know about you, but I would say that merriment is inappropriate in the circumstances.’

  Nobody appeared keen to agree.

  DB said, ‘Somebody’s got a donder up her backside.’

  Paul and Eve giggled with restraint, but it showed in their faces and drew them further into cahoots with DB.

  ‘What the hell’s a donder?’ Paul asked.

  ‘A Zulu staff of office – big stick with a ball on the end. You can donder your enemies with it.’ She demonstrated with a rolled-up newspaper, biffing Paul on the head.

  ‘Thank you kindly, miss. I’ll store that gem away for the day when I need a six-letter answer to my clue – “A Red nod for a twack.”’

  Eve and DB looked at him sideways questioningly.

  A young woman standing close by said, ‘That’s good… really. I’ve never met an anagrammatist as fast as you. Frances Haddon, known as Fran – glad to meet another addict.’ Her voice was a lot like Eve’s, low and gentle, her speech clear, good elocution. She touched hands briefly with the other three, who at once made room for her in their small circle.

  DB asked, ‘Just what are we all on about here?’

  Paul said, ‘Crossword puzzles, anagrams. Not a very good one.’

  Frances Haddon remarked, ‘Off the top of your head like that? I’d say it was very good.’

  Soon they were taken into the part of the Scrubs where they were to start the induction process. They were to work round the clock. Two shifts of three people and one of four. The groups were self-selecting, Eve, DB, Paul and Fran being one.

  Overseeing the Scrubs ‘operation’ was a most attractive woman called Vee Dexter. A story did the rounds that she was waiting for confirmation of her appointment as personal assistant to Colonel Linder with whom it somehow became known she was having a love affair, Linder’s wife and children being safely tucked away in Suffolk.

  Where such gossip started was impossible to decide. The problem was, true or not, gossip was valuable: it was from such sources that truth emerged, a picture built up. But ought such chit-chat in their midst be reported? The on-going problem was how much was planted. Eve decided to take note and leave decisions to the end of the induction.

  Mary-Rose Toffler was another whom Eve found hard to place. She was an older woman in a shift group comprising an older man, Mel, and Stan, most likely Greek. On Saturday mornings when they all received lectures and talks, Mary-Rose always appeared to continue taking notes afterwards, and to intrude upon any little gathering. Maybe she was just socially inept, or overeager. Or maybe, like Eve, she wasn’t sure she was getting it – getting what was going on here. Eve wondered whether any of them did. What was important and what was dross?

  Working in a building with permanently blacked-out windows, they found that the actual time of day was apparent only when they came off shift. They sorted paper, entered lists, filled requisition forms and were asked to redesign them for clarity.

  Paul and Fran loved this work. Their mind sets were suited to dissecting a problem, looking at it and making something of it. Neither of them could understand others who didn’t think in that wa
y. Paul defined it as being ‘those who could, and the rest’, meaning those who couldn’t do the Telegraph crossword puzzle before breakfast. Eve and DB were quite contented to work under such giant minds.

  Vee came and went between the Scrubs and The Bureau offices in Baker Street, one of which was that of the chief, Linder, who would occasionally come into the Scrubs to look around, missing nothing.

  The old prison was believed to be temporary accommodation for the recruits, but soon it appeared that The Bureau was settling in very well. All the bits of carpet in the world wouldn’t give any kind of comfort to their working place, but they were a cheerful bunch, enthusiastic at their acceptance into the War Office. Even the most curious of friends and families would be impressed to hear that they must not ask questions because it was ‘the War Office’. Hush-hush.

  Knowing this gave the whole group a sense of their worth. Not that they could see much of it in the work that many of them found tedious. Where are the cloaks and daggers? they would jokingly ask over their beer glasses at weekends when they were free. Where is the invisible ink?

  Often, on Sundays, all ten of them would just roam around. Nothing better than walking, they agreed, to get to know London. Then they tried the trams and trolley buses, and then the underground, and within a short time had learned the best and quickest routes, as well as the most interesting and picturesque destinations.

  First-aid posts were being created in alleyways and church porches. Everywhere Londoners seemed to be practising: lowering ‘injured’ volunteers down ladders. On end walls yellow-painted letters ‘SWS’ indicated where water could be had if the mains were blown up. Along the platforms of some of the main underground stations, wooden bunk-bed frames were being erected. Fire engines without warning bells tried out narrow side streets for use in emergencies.

  Some Sundays the Bureau recruits caught a sombre mood as they saw Londoners battening down the hatches in preparation for the inevitable. The weeks since Eve came back to England had been dubbed ‘the phoney war’ because of all the restrictions and preparations that seemed so much fruitless labour when both day and night the skies were quiet.