The Face of Eve

by Betty Burton

  Small arms were another matter.

  ‘Concealed weapons – it’s one movement: one… one… one. Hand in your shoulder-bag or pocket, release safety catch, double-handed grip, aim, fire. Bang, bang, you’re dead! But you, Anders – you woulda been dead first. You ain’t looking for your lipstick. You’re about as quick as a pickpocket wearing motorbike gloves.’ Finger was right. Eve resolved she wouldn’t want telling twice. Whether it was learning to drive, learning a foreign language, understanding ‘difficult’ plays and books, her attitude was, ‘If other people master it, so can I.’

  Weapons training was followed by signalling, followed by jujitsu, the art of throwing people.

  Here a jujitsu champion – known as ‘Mr Wham’, whose accent was as far from oriental as a London East Ender’s could be – repeated over and over, ‘Fall soft, you lot. You ladies might have a bit of fat on your arses, but you got to learn to fall bleedin’ soft. Fall relaxed and recover in one movement. Soft and gentle. There won’t be no bleedin’ rubber mat when you’re going to need this.’ The fall bleedin’ soft technique took hours to perfect. But the ten of them glowed with satisfaction once they had learned the trick of tumbling hefty soldiers – seconded from Aldershot – to the floor.

  Liz said, ‘Now let’s see what can happen to a chap with a stiff goose finger.’ Her eyes quite glittered with enthusiasm.

  Each of the instructors had some reservations about the females, but treated them as honorary men as they would be expected to perform as such.

  The trainees became so caught up in the speed and variety of learning new skills that they hardly thought about the reality of killing, until one day Cilia Haddington, apropos of nothing that was being discussed at that moment, said, ‘I would never be able to do that.’ The others knew she was referring to methods of removing human obstacles by stealth.

  Anomie Nash pooh-poohed Cilia’s lofty comment. ‘It isn’t going to be for real, it’s just that we are supposed to do everything the chaps do. In any case, at five foot three, I could only reach the neck of most chaps.’

  The other four laughed at their bouncy colleague, but Cilia wouldn’t let the matter drop. ‘OK, Miss Shortass, how would you take out a border guard?’

  In a second Anomie had removed the long, tortoiseshell clip she always wore to keep up her abundant red hair, and flipped back the bar. The blade she revealed was as fine and as sharp as a scalpel.

  ‘Go for the throat so they can’t shout, and then slash on to the carotid artery.’

  ‘It’d be bloody messy. The neck crack is how I’d do it.’

  They could joke about it now, but it was essential to master the techniques of silently stalking the enemy, taking them from behind, arm tightly around the throat, and a quick jerk of the head to break the neck.

  ‘Heads are twenty per cent of body weight, so you’ve got help there. Weight helps you: knee in the back, then crack, it’s over. Easy as breaking a chicken’s neck,’ their tutor explained.

  ‘Can you imagine how you’d feel when you heard that crack and you knew that you’d broken a guard’s neck? I think I’d be sick on the spot,’ Eve complained.

  ‘No you wouldn’t, Anders,’ the tutor insisted. ‘Me or him – that’s what it comes down to. You’d be as capable as me of taking the arm-lock to its final stage.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ DB said, ‘none of us is ever going to know until we’re in the “me or him” situation.’

  Later, sitting drinking tea as they often did at the end of the day, the ten of them together, Anomie asked, ‘Do you chaps have problems with this arm-hold and garrotte thing?’

  ‘Why would they?’ DB said. ‘Chaps don’t have doubts about themselves as we do. “Break that guard’s neck, Geordie.” “Yes, sir, which vertebra would you like?”’

  ‘Get away with you,’ Tommy said. ‘Geordie’s a big softie. He’d just sit on his face and wait for death.’

  ‘His own or the guard’s?’

  ‘Both.’

  Geordie was known for his placid nature.

  Macabre humour was a way of dealing with the brute facts of the kind of work they had volunteered for. Not surprising – the entire situation was macabre. It was drummed into them every day – ‘No mistakes’, ‘No second chances’, ‘Self-preservation’.

  Gradually they were becoming hardened: ‘Don’t think human being – think Evil!’ ‘Think jackboots on babies’ heads!’ ‘Think No right to live!’ ‘Think, Bastard!’

  Even though she was aware that her attitude had changed totally over the last two or three years, Eve still wondered how well she would perform now in a real situation. They all wondered that about themselves, and seeing the others in action at the firing range led all of them to believe that they were the only ones to have doubts.

  Often they surprised one another. DB made no bones about her sexual variance. ‘I just prefer girls to boys, and I don’t like washboard chests. But none of you have to worry that I’ll put my hand up your skirts. I was fixated on black skin since I was nursed by my Swazi nanny.’ The Chaps nicknamed her the Black Pussy, which DB rather liked.

  Although it was not desirable that groups of trainees formed bonds, it was inevitable under the circumstances, especially with the five women. Not only did they have menstruation, with its physical and emotional disturbance to deal with, it had to be endured without the men being aware.

  Pecs was the only one to embarrass them. ‘Nash! What the bloody ’ell’s wrong with you today? Got your rags out?’

  Anomie flared red with embarrassment and rage, then left the rest of them drop-jawed with wonder. ‘What’s it to you, you fucking pervert? Give you a kick? Like to dip your wick in red – if you’ve got one to dip?’

  As soon as it was out her face drained of colour, and she continued the exercises as though the incident hadn’t occurred. But she had turned on the bully and respect for her was raised a few notches, to say nothing of curiosity about her past – such language from a nice girl like Anomie.

  After weeks of practising the same things time and again, the recruits all began to feel their spirits slump.

  DB complained, ‘It’s boring, boring, boring. I thought it would be more exciting than this.’

  Cilia, always confident, said, ‘What did you expect, Puss, that you would be sent out in the field half-cocked?’

  Eve, feeling as irritated as DB, retorted, ‘You’re so bloody sure that your big brain is headed for a cipher team next – what if it doesn’t come off.’

  ‘I’ve got it screwed on the right way.’

  They laughed like schoolgirls at the flimsy joke.

  An evening of boredom almost got them into deep water. It started out light-heartedly, playing a variation on the game of charades in which each of the ten would enact what they had been before Bureau, or, to save face for any of them who didn’t want to reveal it, what they would like to have been.

  Tommy played it for laughs, and did a fair mime of Tommy Trinder on stage.

  Liz and Cilia did a double act, walking with simpering faces, curtsying and then going into a wild exhibition of waltzing together.

  Geordie brought Johnny into his mime, having him kneel. Geordie made the sign of a cross with two fingers and then on Johnny’s forehead. It seemed easy. ‘A priest.’ Geordie shook his head whilst the others went through the various nouns that would describe his calling.

  It was Cilia who said, ‘It’s to do with Johnny… because he’s black. You were a missionary.’ Geordie nodded. They knew instinctively that this was the truth.

  Then Johnny rose to his feet and stood before Geordie. ‘You think you did good for us blacks, Geordie? Making good little Christians of us, saving us from our own nice, black gods?’

  The few seconds of confrontation seemed long minutes until Geordie said, ‘Naw, Johnny, I never did no man good except me. I got the call – big white man taking the message to Africa, when you had your own damned message. The best I can say to you now, Johnny, is that I w
as no damned good at it. But can you understand being so full of wanting to do something good, that you never asked, did anyone want it done?’

  ‘We all have… well, I have,’ Eve said. Eyes now swivelled to her. ‘I once tried to form a trade union that people were afraid to join.’ The heat was suddenly off Geordie and Johnny, and the group all turned to her with puzzlement.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Liz said. ‘Do what you were at the time.’

  It flashed through Eve’s mind that she might be honest and act out factory work, but she couldn’t bear that they should know that. She might have done driving a heavy truck, but there again she didn’t want the same curiosity that had come Geordie’s way – wanting to do good to people. But she had once been taken to Paris by the factory manager to model one of the latest corselets he had designed. In the end she opted for the modelling.

  Jim said, ‘Do models have trade unions? Or was it a model trade union? I say that Anders modelled women’s fashions and tried to get the others to get into a union.’

  Eve gave it to him by saying cheerfully, ‘The pay was so poor, but starvation kept us thin.’

  Then Johnny said, ‘If you’ll just hold a second, I have to get my props.’ When he returned he went to Geordie and asked him to unbutton his shirt. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better about yourself when I’ve finished.’ Then he hung a stethoscope around his neck, took Geordie’s pulse, and proceeded to put a thermometer under his tongue. He was so practised in his actions that he had to be a doctor.

  ‘I’m not saying what you did was good, Geordie, but my grandfather went to a mission school – and here I am. You think my bedside manner is OK?’

  Nobody quite knew what to do or say. Johnny lightened it by saying in a fair go at the cadences of a Tyneside accent, ‘Y’know, mon, me grandfather never did stop reading the chicken bawnes.’

  DB was last. Aware of what she could do to them, she opened up the lid of a dusty piano that no one had yet tried out, and played a few chords. Starting with a low, clear note, she began to sing.

  There was total silence when she finished.

  A soft voice from the shadows of the unlighted kitchen broke the silence. ‘Hey, man, never heard you better.’

  ‘Paul!’

  His entrance into what was becoming a highly charged emotional group stopped the game.

  Eve, DB and Paul sat up till the early hours of the morning, connecting, laughing and letting down their guard; no dynamic gestures, but small, reassuring hints that suggested here was strong friendship.

  ‘Keep a secret?’ Paul asked.

  DB at once said, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Eve said, ‘Who would ever think that voice came from this wit?’

  ‘I’m going to be a father… a dad.’

  Eve leaned across the sofa and gave him a hug and a kiss. ‘God, Paul, what a thing to spring on us. Does that make us aunts?’

  ‘Oh, you…’ DB said, ‘I didn’t know you had it in you. More to the point, who’s got it in her? Anybody we know?’

  Paul grinned. ‘Give you a clue. I’m going to be the next “The Dad”.’

  ‘You’re joking! Electra! Really? Electra Sanderson?’

  ‘Soon to be Electra Smyth.’

  DB added, ‘With a Y but not an E. How does she feel about it?’

  ‘Ecstatic… so am I. I can’t believe my luck, finding a super girl exactly suited to me, and she says I’m suited to her.’ He held on to his friends, one to each hand. ‘A small light in a dark world, eh?’

  ‘Small?’ Eve said. ‘To me it’s a blinking great searchlight. I don’t know when I’ve felt so pleased with things. I’ve got two friends whom I love with all my heart, and one of them is going to be a dad… an absolutely super dad.’

  ‘Go on,’ DB said, ‘I’ll be the one to ask. When is it due?’

  ‘Just after Christmas.’

  DB held up her fingers, emphatically counting. ‘You have to add on three to the expected date due. Eve, the dog! He was doing it to her whilst we were working away undercover on the Windsor op.’

  Eve ruffled Paul’s hair. ‘No wonder Electra was so giddy at times. Riding that bike and singing her heart out, a Deanna Durbin song… “Can’t help singing, dah dah dah on the crest of the wave with the pleasure that April is bringing.” Wasn’t it just?’

  DB said, ‘Come on, we need to celebrate… put our night training into practice. I’ve got a flask of brandy, and I know you’ve got some cigarettes stashed away. Let’s break bounds and go on the razzle just for the hell of it.’

  ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘So what?’

  It wasn’t really very difficult to get out, and they didn’t go far, only as far as where there was a slipway where a few dinghies were beached, and there the three of them sat in a cocoon of closeness.

  Paul swigged from DB’s flask. ‘Apart from Electra and me – this is as good as it gets.’

  Eve took a large mouthful of the brandy. ‘Cheers. I don’t make friends easily, but what we have is such a special thing to me,’ she gave a nervous little laugh, ‘I honestly don’t know what to do about it.’

  For once, DB didn’t hop in with a witticism to cover her vulnerability. ‘I was going to say we should bottle it.’

  Paul said, ‘You just did.’

  ‘I’ve had lovers galore, but because I was a white, and known as a nigger-lover even before I knew about sex or nigras, I could never keep a friend. Sooner or later some mother would tell her kids, “You keep away from that de Beers girl,” or some father would come to the door and tell my mom that unless she taught me what was what, and what being white meant, then I should keep away from his kids. The irony was… is… most trekker families have got black blood somewhere along the line. They couldn’t keep me out of school because it’s the law that white kids get an education, but I can’t say it was much fun. Best I could do was to make the kids laugh, make a fool of myself for them. But friendship? Nah, man. Never. Singing in American clubland isn’t that conducive to making friends, either. So I never had one. Not till I met you guys and Fran. Those days working in the Scrubs when we went about London together – I wished to hell I could have sent a picture home to my pa and told him, “This is civilisation, Pa. These are my friends, they don’t care if I like black pussy.” Oh sod it! I’m going to cry.’ DB sobbed for a long time, then cupped water from the lapping shallows and splashed her face.

  On the way back to within bounds, they walked slowly, mostly talking about Fran and possibly trying to get in touch with her again. Eve offered to try. ‘I know somebody who is in one of the coding departments. I’ll write and hope he gets the letter.’ Like DB, Eve felt almost overwhelmed by the tenderness and loyalty she felt towards three people who, had it not been for the vagaries of war, she would never have met. War had brought her Dimitri too; but this friendship was something quite different – built on a thousand small acts and gestures, looks, intuition, insight, trust, shared experience, exposure, plus happiness being in their company.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Eve said, ‘we’ll give the others a surprise tomorrow. As it’s our last day I think we should have a treat,’ and she told Paul and DB her plan.

  * * *

  Next morning at breakfast, envelopes containing travel documents and orders were given out and lists went up on the notice board.

  Eve had applied for air training, but instead she had orders to return to London and report directly to Colonel Linder.

  DB leaned across the breakfast table. ‘Hey, man, have you been told to swallow your instructions – or wipe your ass with them?’

  ‘You can see them if you like. It’s not fair! It’s just not bloody fair! They know I’m right for air training. I’m a natural.’

  Liz, Anomie, Tommy and Paul were the selected ones. Paul, of course, knew already that he’d been selected, which was why he had turned up now at the Finishing School.

  Incensed, Eve went rocketing off to the administ
rator’s office. ‘Why have I not been included in the piloting tuition, ma’am?’

  ‘The list was not made up by me, Agent Anders.’

  ‘But, ma’am, it is exactly what I should be trained to do. I have years of experience of driving any vehicle. I would make a very good pilot. Please, ma’am, please, put me on that list.’

  ‘I will need to speak to your immediate superior.’

  ‘Please do that, ma’am. It’s Lieutenant Hatton. He knows that I can handle anything that has an engine. I can even repair engines.’

  ‘Leave the matter with me, Anders, and I will let you know. By the way, I understand that your house is going to Boscombe Down airfield today. Nothing to say you can’t have a flight if you can get someone to take you up. Sergeant Musgrave will bring the transport out front at 09.30 hours — tell the rest of your group, please.’

  The idea of an outing together before they split up had come from Liz saying what the rest must have been thinking: ‘Do you think that we shall ever see one another after this?’

  Cilia had said, ‘If you are going to suggest that we might all meet up again ten years from now, don’t even think of it!’

  Liz, whose suggestion had been going to be just that, had said, ‘Oh, come on, Cilia, you know me better than that. Am I likely to suggest such a sentimental gathering. And even if I had—’

  Her friend had almost growled her response. ‘You useless deb, would you really want to stand there waiting at some prearranged spot on some prearranged day, and none of us turning up? Or at best one of us limping up on a wooden leg or, worse, somebody’s sister coming with a message? Really, if any of you get yourselves captured or injured or dead, I just don’t want to know.’

  Jim had said, ‘OK, then let’s have our reunion before we leave, and the rest of you go flying off. I can arrange for us to go over to Boscombe Down and probably get us taken for a spin in the planes they’re working on.’

  Boscombe Down airfield was not far from the Priory, but halfway there the group stopped, scraped a pit and brewed tea just for the hell of it. As well as a kettle and mugs, Pecs had brought a box of jam tarts. ‘Peace offering, girls and boys.’