by Peter Rimmer
“William? Harry. Come right on over. Sorry to hear about the flat.”
When William finished the call he finished his breakfast.
“I like that man. None of the usual bullshit about being busy to impress. Can we still get taxis, Betty?”
“The Tubes run during the day. They’re quicker. What’s the problem?”
“Japan. Japan’s the problem. My years at trying to be a journalist tell me the Americans are being complacent. They’re pushing the Japs on oil, to put a spanner in the works of the Japs’ war with China. The Americans are stopping oil shipments from the Middle East reaching Japan. The Japs are being cornered. Harry can’t do anything himself. He knows people. Can put a word in the right ear. I’m probably wrong but the Chinese I met in Singapore say the Americans are prodding the tiger.”
“How did you meet the Chinese in Singapore?”
“My cousin’s wife. Joe is married to a Chinese girl. Two kids. Never seen a happier family. The last thing we need is a war in our Far East possessions. India is politically vulnerable. Gandhi has stopped his nonsense for the duration of the war but it’s still dangerous. Gandhi’s just as frightened of the Japs now they’ve conquered half of China on his doorstep. Needs the British Army. It’s Singapore and Hong Kong I worry about. They are too isolated from help if the Japs attack.”
“You think the Japs are going to attack us!”
“Cherry Blossom’s father thinks they have no option. They can’t fight a war without Middle East oil.”
“Who’s Cherry Blossom for God’s sake?”
“My cousin-in-law. Her name sounds better in Chinese. Damn fine breakfast, Betty. You’ll make someone a good wife.”
“I hope so.”
“Kids always want their mothers to be good cooks above everything. You should have tried Cherry Blossom’s cooking. Got to go. Harry’s waiting.”
“I hope so,” said Betty with a smile after the door closed with William on his way to the Air Ministry in his Royal Navy duffel coat. Then she made the decision to beard the lion in its den and picked up the phone to book two tickets to the theatre. She wanted Genevieve to tell William in front of her when they went backstage after the show. She rehearsed her smile and what she was going to say while the phone rang at the ticket agent.
“Congratulations, Genevieve, on your forthcoming marriage to Flight Lieutenant Oosthuizen.”
She just hoped Genevieve would be nicely stunned and not ask who had told her the good news. Poor Colin. He’d never forgive her. Explaining to William how she knew Colin would scupper her campaign before it started. The breakfast was a good sign. Men liked being pampered. No wonder the cousin liked his Chinese wife. Right through history Chinese women were renowned for pampering their men.
Then she did the washing up, dressed in a suit and went to the office to start her day.
The worst part for Harry Brigandshaw was not knowing. Listening to the news left Harry in a state of panic. It was always the same at the end of the bulletin describing the RAF’s latest bombing raid on Germany. ‘Aircraft attacked the heart of Germany’s industrial might last night destroying factories and German morale. The raid was successful. Three of our aircraft failed to return.’ The last part caused Harry’s panic by failing to answer his question: ‘was Anthony flying one of our aircraft that failed to return?’ It was a BBC euphemism for ‘three of our aircraft were shot down. There were no survivors. The pilot, navigator, middle gunner and rear gunner. Families will be informed.’ It was always ‘missing’. As if the crew had landed other than at home base, or baled out of the aircraft. Sounded better. Better for British Morale.
By the time Harry finished listening to the ten o’clock news, William Smythe was shown into his office giving Harry something else to think about. They had known each other a long time, ever since the press came into his life when he returned to England from his journey out of the Congo, much of the trip still a blur. William had found him at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases in Bloomsbury.
“Come in, William. Remembering how we first met at the hospital. Do you know, Will, that was ten years ago? Sit yourself down. For a chap who’s just found his home bombed out you look damn chipper. Like the duffel coat. Did you steal it from the navy or did they give it to you?”
“The captain gave it to me. How are you, Harry?”
“Worried stiff every time I listen to the news.”
“It’s not that bad. Not as bad as September 1940 when every fighter in the RAF was committed to the battle.”
“You’ve been away. Anthony’s flying a Lancaster over Germany with his squadron. It’s the bit at the end of the bulletin that gets me. Three of our aircraft failed to return. You chaps in the BBC have a way of putting everything so it doesn’t affect British morale. It was better in the last war. At least I knew what was going on. Now I just wait. What’s up, William? You never do anything without a reason. Do you know I sleep every night on a platform underground? Made myself some friends. You make your best friends in life in adversity. So, what’s up?”
“The Japs are getting up steam to attack America. No one will listen to me. Cherry Blossom’s father has a network of contacts in the Far East.”
“Who’s Cherry Blossom?”
“My cousin’s wife.”
“Start at the beginning, Will. I’m listening. What do you want me to do?”
“Tell someone in Whitehall who will listen.”
“They’ve got enough on their plate without worrying about rumours.”
“It’s not a rumour, Harry. The Japanese navy with aircraft carriers is getting ready to sail into the Pacific. If they haven’t sailed already. It’s been a long voyage from Singapore.”
“There’s Glen Hamilton in Denver. He’ll be interested.”
“The papers report, Harry. This is intelligence information. Why I came straight to you. No one else would listen to me in Singapore. They still drink cocktails and dress for dinner as if Japan isn’t at war with China right next to them.”
“Do you have specific proof? Other than this Chinaman’s word. Just because he’s somehow related to you won’t wash in Whitehall. There were three aircraft missing last night. Bomber Command is building up its strength. Now it’s the turn of the Germans to get a bit of their own medicine. I like telling them that at Charing Cross Tube station every night. You should come down and spend a night with us. Mrs Coombes makes me cheese sandwiches. Thinks I’m as poor as a church mouse.”
“What’s wrong with the Air Ministry shelter?”
“Wrong people. I’ve made some real friends in the underground. But I’m digressing. Don’t forget the Japs were on our side last time. The Russians are having a bad time. We’re sending them fighter aircraft through Murmansk when that part of the sea isn’t frozen. Round neutral Sweden. The route to Leningrad is in German control. Now the Russians are our Allies. Before the war, those that knew said Russian communism was worse than German fascism. At least fascism has a strong element of capitalism in how they run an economy. Any port in a storm, I suppose. Ha, ha. You’re meant to laugh, William Smythe. Before you start and I shut up I’ll have Katherine bring us in some tea. What would we British do without tea? Now if your Japs conquer India and cut off our supply of tea we’ll all be sunk… Katherine, my dear. Could you rustle us up a pot of tea? There isn’t any sugar, of course.”
After William left, to visit their mutual friend and William’s fellow journalist Horatio Wakefield, Harry got on the phone. After an hour it was clear no one was interested, or if they were, they showed no concern to Harry. Some of the people he spoke to were short with him.
“Nice of you to call, Harry. Aren’t you with the Air Ministry? There’s a real war right here in Europe.”
The inference was plain. It was none of his business. When Ding-a-ling made his daily report he heard William’s Japanese story.
“Why would they want to warn the Americans, Harry? Even if it was anything to do with us. The Civil Service li
kes to keep it in compartments. Even in wartime. You only worry about your own house burning down. They’ve decided not to hang Hirst-Brown. The bit about the thirty-two shillings must have got to someone.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
“Leave him in jail.”
“How long for?”
“Who knows. If the Japs attack the American fleet they’ll have to declare war. Then they’re in. They’ll declare war against Japan’s ally Germany. No wonder they’ve been giving you the cold shoulder. They’re all hugging themselves, hoping the Japs go in. When Hitler did it for us in Russia by breaching their non-hostility pact and attacking the Soviets, Churchill did a jig. If you can imagine that. He won’t cry if the Japs bring America into the war. I didn’t realise until the other day Churchill’s mother is an American. Roosevelt says he drinks too much.”
“I’m always suspicious of people who don’t drink.”
“So am I. Damn unsociable. Maybe if you phone the Prime Minister he’d warn his mother’s family in America.”
“Even I can’t get through to Churchill. For some reason he never takes my calls.”
“Have you ever tried, Harry?”
“Of course not.”
“I heard Anthony was on that raid last night, by the way. Glad he landed safely.”
“Oh thank God.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Why do we worry about our children more than ourselves?”
“They are all we leave behind that lasts. Money gets spent or stolen. If the kids have their own kids, you go on. Basic human instinct. We want to survive on this earth. It’s the only certainty we have. Unless we blow up the world.”
“Won’t the Japs attack India if they attack America?”
“They want to control the Far East. The way Hitler wants to conquer the whole of Europe. You mark my word, that chap Gandhi will let us British defend India against Japan and then throw us out.”
“So you believe William’s story?”
“If the oil bit is true they don’t have a choice. Do you have any more of that Scotch?”
“Not a drop. The last drop went down Sarah Coombes’s throat, bless her heart.”
“She has her eye on you, Harry.”
“I’m married.”
“Tina’s far away. Do you miss her?”
“All of them. More and more. Your own family is the only sanity in this world.”
“You want to run a story on Japan about to attack America? Mr Glass will never go for that without proof, William,” said Horatio Wakefield.
“I phoned Glen Hamilton at the Denver Telegraph from Harry’s office. Got straight through after only ten minutes, just shows where the priorities lie. He also wasn’t interested. Sounded a bit on edge. Won’t run the story. Told me to stop spreading rumours. He was even quite sharp on the phone for Glen. I’ve done my bit. I’m staying with Betty.”
“You can always stay with me and Janet. If you can put up with the noise of the kids. I want them to go to Cornwall. Janet says we’re all in this war together. The idea of foster parents for the kids doesn’t appeal. The school’s closed down. Janet’s teaching Harry and Bergit at home.”
“He was a spy for the Nazis, Horatio. Harry’s confirmed it. One of Henning von Lieberman’s sleepers did something Harry won’t explain to the press.”
“Janet won’t believe you. Said he was such a gentleman.”
“They often are.”
“Did you get enough details for a story?”
“I was told just enough to let you know.”
“How long are you staying with Betty?”
“Who knows. The flat’s comfortable. The girl can cook. And she’s organised.”
“Sounds perfect.”
When William came backstage that night with a bunch of flowers, Genevieve was surprised to see him. He had a girl with him which made it easier. They should never have had their one-night stand in New York when she was feeling lonely and homesick. She had used him which wasn’t right. Having casual sex with someone who cared was wrong, even if at the time she was unaware of the intensity of William’s feelings. Afterwards in England she had tried to explain. Explaining made it worse. If he had come alone with his bunch of flowers she would have had to tell him what was going on with Tinus and hurt the poor man again. Why couldn’t men be just friends, she asked herself shaking hands with the girl. The way the girl looked at William made Genevieve smile.
The play had been running a week, Genevieve taking a cameo part to relieve her boredom with Tinus in Scotland teaching young men how to fly. Her whole life revolved around his odd days of leave. The play was a trivial drawing room comedy about a shiftless young man trying to win the heart of a sports-mad heiress by pretending to be an Olympic athlete. It took people’s minds off the war, relieving the permanent tension. It was not, in her opinion, a very good play but served its purpose.
There was talk in Hollywood of making a movie. Gerry Hollingsworth phoned her every week telling her to come back to America. One of his boys had been killed in North Africa by Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Genevieve had not known what to say. She had once met David in London when Gerry Hollingsworth was Louis Casimir and Jewish. David, she was told, was a lieutenant. Gerry had not told her the name of his regiment. He had been crying down the phone. The sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Tinus going back on active service had stopped her saying the right words, like ‘no man should bury his own child’. Everything was personal. David to Gerry. Tinus to her.
“Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.”
“What did you say?” she asked the girl quickly, glancing at William. In his eyes was the look of total loss.
“Your marriage to Flight Lieutenant Oosthuizen. You’re wearing an engagement ring.”
“Oh, this. Well I suppose you could call it that.”
“On the right finger.” The girl was looking self-satisfied.
“Was it your idea to come backstage, Betty?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. William won’t believe me.”
“And you love William. I hope you enjoyed the show. Not my most spectacular part. We are getting married, William, but only after the war. Tinus won’t marry with the war hanging over our heads. Why we’ve told no one other than close friends. How did you find out, Betty? It is Betty? Won’t you both sit down if you can find some room? This is a small dressing room. You see, this time, I’m not the star. Tinus is up in Scotland. He’s a flying instructor. His nerves are shot after four tours so they pulled him off active duty. I suppose you know someone at Tangmere. Pilots talk to each other sitting waiting to be scrambled into action. They say things they normally wouldn’t, not knowing if they will be alive in an hour’s time.”
“Will you have dinner with us, Genevieve?” asked William.
“Not tonight, William. I try and make a call to Tinus from my hotel room. Mostly I don’t get through. Just another girl in love with a pilot. I’ll put your flowers in water. They are pretty. How are you, William?”
“Bombed out. Literally. The whole damn building came down while I was in Singapore.”
“I’m so glad you were lucky not to be in your flat. Have you seen Harry Brigandshaw recently?”
“This morning.”
“Give him my love.”
“Does Harry know?”
“Not officially. We want to be married from Hastings Court and go and live in Rhodesia. As far as possible from all this madness.”
“You’ll give up your career?”
“We give up everything for love, William. Where are you now staying?”
“With Betty. Betty’s my secretary.”
“Ah, that Betty,” said Genevieve with a soft smile. “How convenient. I hope you’ll both be very happy. These are lovely flowers. So difficult to get fresh flowers at Christmas.”
“Goodbye, Genevieve.”
“Goodbye, William. Have a good life. You’re a good man. Look after him, B
etty. Good men are hard to find.”
The bombs did not come for three days. For three nights Janet did not take the children to the air-raid shelter under their house in Chelsea. Horatio had had the roof of the cellar reinforced with one-inch steel at the start of the war. There was an outside stairwell to the cellar. The door to the outside had been reinforced with a steel plate. Only a direct hit through the three storeys of the house with the bomb exploding at the bottom was a threat. Horatio had not explained to Janet how they could all be killed. If the house caught fire they would escape up the stairwell into the street. It was better than sleeping in the subway if not so safe. There was always the risk of getting to the underground Tube station before they were safe. There were hurricane lamps and a paraffin heater which warmed up the small room in winter. Horatio wanted Janet to take the children to Cornwall which wasn’t being bombed by the Germans.
Her speech therapy practice had stopped. People had bigger problems to worry about than cleft palates, or stutters, or speaking the King’s English without a provincial accent. Janet would not go without Horatio, the foreign correspondent at the Daily Mail. Except that with the war raging overhead all his reporting came from London. All of it about the war. Everything in their lives was concentrated in the war, in the present, which included Herr Henning von Lieberman.
“He was such a nice man. Spoke beautiful English. How can such a nice man do such terrible things? Without radar, William says, the Germans could bomb London into the ground, day and night. Why? He was so friendly when I helped his stutter. What’s gone wrong with the world, Horatio?”
“According to Harry Brigandshaw it happens slowly. At first you think you are doing the right thing.”
“I think the children are asleep. If the air-raid siren hasn’t gone off by now they can stay in their beds all night. I hate that shelter. Never sleep properly cooped up in a dungeon watching the children toss and turn by candlelight after you turn off the hurricane lamp.”