Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Well, I don’t trust you, no matter what government you work for.’ I frowned at him. ‘You say you read Inspector Wayland’s report. Then you must know I’m going to take the locket to the police in Scotland Yard today. Why not get it from the police once I’ve handed it over, or at least ask them to show it to you?’

  ‘I’d like to get hold of it first. It may contain material that’s potentially embarrassing to the US government.’

  ‘How? In what way, embarrassing?’

  He was silent. The waitress arrived with his coffee and my tea. She placed them carefully on the table, giving Michael a smile as she did so.

  I poured myself a strong cup, took a sip and sat back in my chair, watching him and thinking furiously. So Zebulon Michael Harker worked for the War Office and was attached to the US Embassy in London. Everyone knew that if you worked for the War Office you worked in Intelligence. It looked awfully like Michael Harker was an American spy. So where did his allegiance lie?

  A new American ambassador had arrived in London the week before to replace Joseph Kennedy, who had been known in London as ‘Jittery Joe’, because he’d moved out of the capital rather than face the Blitz. He had been no friend to Britain. Ambassador Kennedy’s speeches had been widely reported in the newspapers and in them he had said that he thought that Britain was facing defeat at the hands of the Nazis. He also said that he was utterly opposed to any American aid being given to us to help us fight the Nazis. He wanted America to stay neutral, no matter what Hitler did in Europe.

  I had no time for Michael Harker’s former boss and I certainly didn’t care if Jittery Joe Kennedy was embarrassed. On the other hand, I liked President Roosevelt, who seemed to be a friend to Britain.

  Michael took a sip of coffee, grimaced and put the cup down. ‘Maisie, what the locket may or may not contain does not concern you.’

  ‘There’s nothing in it,’ I said brusquely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I looked in the locket. It has a photograph of a woman from around 1900. Nothing else.’

  ‘Then there’s no harm in letting me look at it.’

  ‘And no harm in me giving it to the British police and letting them decide whether to show to you.’ I took a sip of tea and opened my eyes widely in what I hoped was an artless look.

  His mouth tightened. Any hint of a smile had disappeared, and for the first time I could see that Michael Harker would be a dangerous enemy.

  ‘If it has what I think it might have in it,’ he said, ‘and that falls into the wrong hands, then it would be embarrassing for my country, but potentially disastrous for yours.’ He put his arms on the table, leaned forward and looked straight into my eyes. ‘I’m being straight with you, Maisie. It’s that important. For your country and for mine.’

  I looked away, confused. The whole episode was bizarre, and I was tired after a long night on duty. I no longer wanted to engage in verbal sparring with Michael Harker, I just wanted to curl up in bed and forget all about him. And so I capitulated.

  ‘You can look at it, see if it has what you want but not take it away with you. If it does, you can get it from Scotland Yard. I promised to give it to the police today and I will.’

  ‘Thanks, Maisie. You’re a champ.’

  I had a feeling the word should be ‘chump’, so I added a rider. ‘You can look at the locket,’ I repeated, ‘but only where I can keep an eye on you, because, well, to be frank, I don’t trust you not to steal it.’

  He gave me one of his devastating smiles. ‘Where?’

  ‘The Theatre Girls’ Club. My boarding house.’

  ‘The barred and gated harem? I’m sure looking forward to that,’ he said.

  Edna called out to Michael as we left the restaurant. ‘Thanks, love. Any time I can do you a favour, just ask.’ When she was rewarded with another of his dazzling smiles, she raised a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. ‘He’s a corker, love,’ she called to me.

  Not the word I’d have used.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We didn’t speak, but I could feel his good humour as he walked beside me to the club. It worried me. From what I could tell, Zebulon Michael Harker was so sneaky that he made a fox seem dull-witted.

  I rang the bell and we waited in the early morning sunshine for someone to open up.

  ‘You don’t have a key?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We can only come in between six in the morning, when the cook gets up, and eleven at night when the housekeeper goes to bed.’

  ‘Sounds like the girls’ dorms at my college,’ he said. ‘Very strict rules. But somehow they always found a way around them to have a good time.’

  I shrugged. ‘The restrictions at the club chafe a little, but it’s a safe, clean and friendly place. That’s all I need after a hard shift.’

  He didn’t reply. When I twisted around to look at him he was watching me. For once his face was open, unmasked and there was no smile. Again, I felt fixed in the pale blue of his eyes.

  I was suddenly all too aware of how I must look. Hair tumbling out of the low chignon I swept it into when I was working. My filthy uniform partially covered by a tatty raincoat. Face only as clean as a quick wipe-over with the flannel at work could make it, because the hot water was off again that morning and I’d not been inclined to take a cold shower. I knew I looked tired, because I felt utterly exhausted.

  ‘You’re no older than those girls at my college were,’ he said, reaching out to brush some hair away from my eyes. ‘Only nineteen.’

  My mouth had become dry. ‘Nearly twenty.’

  The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Nineteen. And not one of those college girls would ever have gone through anything like what you face, night after night. I saw you down there, in that nightclub, acting like a – a – like an angel of mercy.’

  I swallowed, embarrassed, and blurted out, ‘I’m not—’

  ‘You’re an example of everything that’s good about this country.’ He stared at me again for a long minute, reached his hand and …

  And Lorna Gaskin opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Maisie,’ she said in a sing-song voice. Then she caught sight of Michael and her eyes went wide. ‘Oh, are you seeing Maisie home safely?’ Her smile lit up her face. ‘Maisie never – I mean, silly me. How do you do? I’m Lorna Gaskin.’

  Michael smiled at her. I thought she’d keel over on the spot.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Gaskin. I’m Michael Harker.’

  ‘Oh – you’re American.’ She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘I thought you were joking about wanting to go out with John Wayne.’

  I could feel Michael’s amusement. It emanated from him in waves.

  ‘I was joking,’ I said, flushing. ‘It’s not like that—’

  ‘Of course it’s not like that,’ he said smoothly. ‘I make a point of never dating teenagers.’ I had a feeling the comment was directed not at Lorna but at me, which was annoying.

  ‘I’m twenty-two,’ breathed Lorna.

  I broke in, saying hurriedly, ‘Mr Harker is here to see a piece of jewellery I found at an incident. It, er, it might belong to him.’

  Her face became a mottled red. ‘Oh, sorry. Please do come in. The common room’s upstairs.’ As he climbed up before us she whispered to me, ‘So, is he married?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I replied, and swept past her up to the common room as regally as I could.

  Michael had already made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. Very comfortable indeed. With six young women chattering and laughing around him, he brought to mind a sheik surrounded by his harem, which was just the word he’d used to describe the club. Lorna pushed me aside to join in the fun.

  ‘It’s simply marvellous to meet an American,’ Bobbie was saying. ‘And we do appreciate all that your country is doing for us.’

  ‘I dote on Mr Roosevelt,’ said Lorna, who had burrowed her way through to the front of the crowd.

  ‘I’ll get it, Mr Harker,’ I c
alled out from the doorway. ‘Be back in a moment.’

  He was barely visible through the gaggle of theatre girls, but I caught sight of his hand waving in reply.

  I clumped up the stairs. Was he married? I had no idea, but it was clear that he saw me as a kid, a college-aged girl. I make a point of never dating teenagers. I’d been looking after myself since I was sixteen, thank you very much, Mr Harker. And that meant I was really much, much older than those American college girls in their bobby socks and ponytails and good times. An angel of mercy. Hah! I did my job, that was all.

  And who was Michael Harker anyway? A privileged American with great teeth and a college education. How I detested men who thought that they were entitled to take their pick of the girls because of their money and their upbringing and their good looks. Give me a man who knew what it was like to be cold and hungry, knew how it felt to see those you loved suffer, knew how tough the world could be. Not anyone in the slightest like Zebulon Michael Harker. Ridiculous name, anyway.

  I found the locket buried under my blue sweater and pulled it out into the light to look closely at the photograph inside. Could this pretty woman in her old-fashioned clothes somehow be able to embarrass America and put my country in danger? It made no sense. And then, as if a lever had clicked into place in my fuddled brain, I realised. Spies used miniature cameras. And miniature film.

  I found my eyebrow tweezers and gently lifted the corner of the photograph in the locket. It came out with a bit of coaxing. Behind it was a small, neat, thin package that revealed itself to be four photographic negatives wrapped in rice paper.

  Michael was sitting at his ease when I entered the common room, still surrounded by young women but now chatting to Miss King. From her smile it was clear that he had charmed her as well. I despaired of my sex.

  He threw his devastating smile at me when I entered the room. I did not return it and held up the locket. The smile faded and he stood up as I walked across to hand it to him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, holding up the locket to the light. ‘That’s it.’ He opened it, gazed at the photograph inside and sighed.

  ‘So it is yours?’ said Bobbie. ‘Is that your mother’s photograph?’

  ‘Sure is. Can you see the likeness?’ The girls crowded around to look and my exclamation was lost in the general cooing. The consensus was that Michael was the image of Mom, and what a pretty woman she had been.

  ‘It’s my only memento of Mom as a young woman. She …’ He blinked a little faster than usual, to give the impression of holding back tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured Bobbie, usually the most hard-nosed of all of us. ‘When did you lose her?’

  ‘Two years ago. She was plain worn out from looking after us all, I guess. I’m from a family of eleven.’

  ‘She sounds wonderful,’ said Bobbie as I stared on in horrified amazement.

  Bobbie, you’re an actress, I wanted to shout to her. Can’t you tell he’s acting? It’s flimflam. I wondered what other tales he had told the girls and Miss King in my absence. How easy I had made it for him with my stupid lie to Lorna. I had wanted to stop her questions, but it seemed that he’d used and embellished my story. Sneakier than a blinking fox is Z. Michael Harker.

  The girls made the usual noises of sympathy to Michael, but as they did so they tossed back their hair, stuck out their chests and licked their lips. Zebulon Michael Harker was certainly a hit with the theatre girls. Even Miss King patted her curl helmet.

  I’d never spoken about what had happened in the Café de Paris to anyone in the club. No one knew about my interview with the police yesterday, except for Michael. No wonder he had seemed so chirpy. How could I now tell the truth, say to the girls that the locket had belonged to a dead man and I had promised to give it to the police today? They would think I’d gone mad. I had a mad fantasy of snatching it from his grasp and running away, but he’d only catch me. I contented myself with glaring at him.

  He chatted with the girls and Miss King for a few minutes longer, then rose and looked at me. I swear I saw him wink.

  ‘Maisie,’ he said, ‘I can’t thank you enough for returning this family treasure to me.’ He slipped it into his breast pocket and stood up. ‘And now, sadly, I have an appointment that can’t wait.’

  Unless they physically held him back, and it was clear that some of them itched to do so, the girls had to allow him to leave the room.

  ‘Give it back,’ I said flatly, as I walked with him down the stairs.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t do that.’

  We had reached the front door. He was about to walk away with the locket and I couldn’t think of a single thing I could do to stop him.

  ‘What am I supposed to tell Inspector Wayland?’

  He reached into his pocket. I had a moment of delirious hope that he would return the locket to me, but instead he pulled out a card. He held it against the door jamb while he scribbled something on the back. He handed it over.

  It was the same card he’d shown me before, with his name and the US Embassy address. On the back he’d written a telephone number and, ‘Not her fault. I tricked her and took it.’ He had signed his name.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said. ‘They won’t blame you.’ He gave me a hard, straight look. ‘What I told you earlier about what might be in the fob is secret. It’s important to keep it secret.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maisie. You’re a good kid. I promise you it is important, or I wouldn’t have pulled such a cheap trick.’

  A wave of fury swept through me, but I kept my voice calm. ‘It was a beastly trick. You are a sneaky, nasty rat.’

  ‘If it makes you feel better, I’m going to make sure that Egan’s widow gets this. Now you please get some rest, you look like you’re about to keel over.’

  And with those comforting remarks, he turned on his heel and set off along Greek Street without a backward look. Which meant that he didn’t see me smile, or hear me whisper, ‘Sorry, Michael. But I’m a Yorkshire lass, who won’t stand for t’egg under t’cap.’ Which meant I was not as gullible as Michael would like to believe.

  In my room, in my underwear drawer, tucked safely into my empty powder compact, was a small packet of rice paper wrapped around four photographic negatives.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I felt much better after a few hours’ sleep, although I faced a barrage of questions about Michael when I ventured downstairs. To all of them I replied that he worked for the US Embassy and I had no idea if he was married. Also that I was unlikely ever to meet him again.

  Safely back in my room, I retrieved my powder compact and opened it to look at the little square parcel. Had I made a serious mistake in removing it? I had been so tired earlier that I’d found it hard to think straight. If Michael were to be believed, it could be devastating for Britain if this information fell into the wrong hands. But I really wasn’t sure that his hands were the right ones.

  I’d taken the negatives because he had lied to me, tricked me and treated me like a fool. Although he worked for the American Embassy, I wasn’t sure where his loyalty lay. To Jittery Joe Kennedy, who was no friend of Britain’s? Or did he support the brand new Ambassador Winant, who had made all the right noises about being on Britain’s side in this war?

  Should I give the negatives to the police? I liked Inspector Wayland, but he was a detective, not involved in espionage. It might be better to make sure that someone in the British Intelligence Service had them. Or simply to destroy them.

  Lily’s husband, Jim Vassilikov, had transferred to Air Force Intelligence after being too badly injured to keep flying. Should I speak to him about the negatives? Or perhaps I should tell Michael that I had what he wanted, but I would not hand them over until he gave me a clear explanation as to what they were. The problem was that I wasn’t at all sure I liked the idea of seeing Michael Harker again. He was too untrustworthy, and far too charming.

  First of all, though, I had to go to Scotland Y
ard and explain what had happened to the locket. I was not looking forward to telling Inspector Wayland what a fool I’d been. I wasn’t sure I could rely on Michael’s card. I’d need some protection from the inspector’s anger.

  The gas had come back on an hour before and I was able to have a hot bath. Only then did I feel human. I put up my hair into a pompadour at the front and my usual chignon at the back. My face was brightened with my small supply of pre-war powder, mascara and lipstick. And then I dressed up in a showgirl’s armour, clothes that made the most of my figure. I slipped on a white woollen sweater that fitted like a second skin. This went under a well-cut blue-and-white check suit that I’d bought in Paris before the war. It fitted snugly – very snugly – in all the right places. There were some advantages to my figure. We Tiller Girls used to call our bosoms and backsides and long legs our ‘assets’. I knew how to use my assets to distract men who might be inclined to scold me or ask too many difficult questions.

  I looked in the mirror. My stocking seams were straight, and my shoes high-heeled to make the most of my slim ankles. I placed a perky Paris hat carefully at just the right angle and pulled on some lacy white gloves. It wasn’t a particularly cold day and it didn’t look like rain, so I decided to forgo a raincoat in order to take full advantage of my outfit.

  I must have looked all right as I had a couple of low whistles when I passed a heavy rescue unit in Charing Cross Road on my way to the bus stop. The number 24 arrived fairly quickly, not a red London bus, but a brown bus from goodness knows where. It was pot luck as to which route the non-London bus would take, as there were so many diversions, but it lurched off in the right general direction along the crater-strewn and potholed road.

  The journey was slow and depressing. We were diverted down narrow side streets that allowed us to peer into the first-floor windows of houses and flats. I saw a man in pyjamas, yawning, probably a night-shift worker waking after his daytime sleep. In another house a family was sitting down to tea. Their little girl waved at the bus as it passed.

  Eventually we reached Charing Cross Road. The National Gallery was looking sadly the worse for wear, pock-marked by shrapnel and bullets. In Trafalgar Square, red-brick air-raid shelters, windowless and intimidating, had replaced the fountains. Nelson still stood on his column. With his good eye he would see prodigious destruction down The Mall, and in every direction, north, south, east, west. I wondered if he turned his blind eye to the mess. The statue of King Charles I astride his horse was penned inside a wall of brick and timber. The stone lions were scarred by shrapnel and I could see only a few pigeons.