He must have been able to see from my face that I was again beginning to think that I had made a mistake in leaving Stratford, for he reached across his desk and picked up a folder, made of thin brown card and across which was stenciled the word SECRET. He opened it.
“See this?” he said, lowering his voice and laying his hand on the sheets inside. “This is a report—very short, just two pages—about three newspaper references, in the Hamburg press, to a new class of destroyer. The newspapers are not allowed to give any details, but in the interests of boosting morale the papers were allowed to explain that Hamburg workers had beaten the work schedule for the first two of this new class of ship.” He held up some more clippings. “Launch reports, a few weeks later. Nothing special, except the names of the ships. The Albrecht and the Ewald—mean anything to you?”
They did, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Weren’t they… weren’t they eighteenth-century figures, sir? Theologians? Scientists? Sorry.”
“No, no. You’re halfway there. Good. Wilhelm Albrecht and Heinrich Ewald were, according to this report”—he laid his hand back on the papers—“famous professors at Göttingen University in the nineteenth century, and they were part of a particular group—”
“The Göttingen Seven,” I breathed. “I remember now.”
“Correct,” said Pritchard. “Well done. Seven professors who objected to something the local prince had done and formed a protest movement.”
He sucked on his pipe.
“So, this paper, this secret paper, argues that this new class of destroyer will very likely comprise seven ships in all.” He closed the file. “It’s not much, and it may not be true, but it gives our people something on the ground to work with. It helps them with what to look for, suggests what questions they need to ask. Do you see?”
I nodded. I supposed that you were more likely to find seven needles in a haystack than one.
“Now we work in teams of four—each team with a leader, a major. I divide up the work between the teams, and the leaders subdivide it further. The teams tend to have specialities, and we have about ten of them. Some specialize in German history, some in politics, some in economics, others in industrial relations. The science team is a bit short at the moment—I’d like you to go there.”
It wasn’t a request, so I said, “Yes sir, fine by me.”
“Good. Now follow me, and I’ll introduce you.”
He led the way out of his office, along a narrow corridor lined with windows on one side, through two sets of double doors, down a flight of stairs that wrapped around a rickety lift, through two more sets of double doors, and into a room that resembled nothing so much as the school gymnasium where I had addressed the children back in Middle Hill. It was big enough to contain a badminton court with space left over, with high walls and huge round dish lights hanging on thick black cables. Bulky tables were laid out across the room, each one square and of such a size as to accommodate four people comfortably, one on each side. There was muted talk as we entered through the double doors, chatter that died as we descended the short flight of stairs. A pile of newspapers was stacked in the middle of each table.
Pritchard led the way through the layout of tables, toward one where I could see there was an empty chair.
“Sheila,” he said to a woman seated facing the rest of the room. “This is Henry Montgomery. I told you about him. Injured at the Front, convalesced in Evesham, has done a few weeks at Stratford. Short, I know, but his family was in publishing—”
“Yes, I remember what you told me,” said Sheila. She got up and came toward me. “Leave him with me. I’ll hold his hand.”
“Good.” Pritchard turned to me. “Sheila was a professor of German at Liverpool University. She’s not as ferocious as she looks.”
“Oh yes I am,” Sheila barked. “Don’t mislead the poor lamb.” She was smiling, but there was an edge to what she said. I was willing to bet she had been tough on her students.
“Come and see me on Friday morning,” said Pritchard to me. “Let me know how your first week has gone. I just have to talk to someone in one of the other teams. Sheila will do the honors with everyone else.”
He smiled at me, then at Sheila, and walked across to one of the other tables.
Sheila and I shook hands.
“Sheila Small is my full name,” she said. “This is Colin Jardine and over there is James Leith.”
We shook hands. Jardine was tall and lanky, Leith as wiry as a terrier and bald as a bullet.
“Colin worked for a shipping company in Hamburg,” confided Sheila. “James was a railway man. He knows all about compressors, the physics of boilers, hard stuff like that.”
“You?” said Jardine. Both Leith and he were Scots and he spoke with a soft lilt.
I brought them up to speed on my time in Germany and at the Front.
They didn’t fuss but I could tell they were appreciative. Though I was young, I had the right kind of experience.
Sheila pointed to the vacant chair. “Plonk yourself there, Henry.”
I nodded. “They call me Hal at home.”
“Hal it is.” She reached toward the center of the table, took a newspaper from the pile, and laid it in front of me. “Here’s how it works. Colonel Pritchard probably explained to you that we read newspapers, German, Swiss, Hungarian, Rumanian, Polish, and Czech newspapers, on the lookout for anything we might turn into intelligence—yes?”
I nodded.
“Right. We’ll soon see how good you are in that department. But there are two other things to bear in mind.” She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “One, you have to read quickly. A lot of intelligence dates, so we try to read all papers within a month of publication—even if it takes them two weeks to get here. Clear?”
I nodded again.
“That means that we don’t read the papers in the order in which they arrive, but in the order in which they are published, always trying to keep as up to date as possible.” She put her eyeglasses back on. “Two, reading newspapers is the lowest of the low in intelligence terms. You’ll soon get bored stiff by the whole thing. The good news is that a carrot is dangled in front of everyone in this room. Those who prove adept at reading between the lines in the newspapers are promoted—and given their chance at reading enemy interrogation reports, even captured enemy intelligence documents. If you’re really good you are even sent abroad, back to the Front, to inspect fresh intelligence as and when it comes in.” She looked about the room. “Not everyone gets sent to the Front, of course. Some are too old, too fat, like their creature comforts too much. It can be dangerous.” She smiled a grim smile. “So someone your age may not find promotion so hard.”
She went back to her seat. “Anyway, you’re here on a month’s probation in the first instance. Any problems, don’t wait to ask. The hours are eight-thirty till six, lunch is twelve-thirty till one-fifteen, coffee and tea are brought round. No smoking in this room, men must wear ties, everyone must wear trousers, so we can all keep our minds on the job. If anyone makes a major breakthrough—as judged by Colonel Pritchard’s superiors—each table gets a bottle of whisky. At the moment we average one breakthrough a month, though it has been falling off lately. This department goes round the corner to the Wellington for a drink after work on Wednesdays. You will be expected to attend.”
I picked up the paper in front of me, a copy of the Frankfurter All-gemeine Zeitung, or FAZ, as I learned to call it, and the rest of the day passed rather more quickly than the days that followed.
I can’t say I achieved a great breakthrough in that first week and what I remember most was the drink after work on the Wednesday, when I was buttonholed by several of the others in the department, who wanted to know who I was, how I had got my limp, how I had been recruited, whether I was married, whether I played bridge, how well I knew Germany, if I spoke any other languages, and, in one case, if I could lend them five pounds.
On the Friday morning at the
end of my first week, I saw Colonel Pritchard as arranged. Or at least I turned up outside his office. He was just leaving as I arrived and merely said, “Everything all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Splendid. Sheila said you seemed a good egg, so don’t let me down.” And he was gone.
I went back to my chair and newspapers and worked on throughout the day. The War Ministry Intelligence Department was the only place I have ever been—apart from the Front, that is—where Friday afternoon was just like any other part of the working week. We sat at our tables, diligently keeping at it, until six o’clock on the dot. No one shirked, no one left early, no one gossiped about what they were doing at the weekend. In a way I was surprised that we didn’t have to come in on Saturday and Sunday but Sheila said it would be counterproductive. “People need a break. The work is wearing as it is.” She smiled one of her gloomy smiles. “You’ll probably find that you can’t bring yourself to read your usual newspaper tomorrow. There’s a price to pay for everything. But try to have a good weekend if you can.”
I had a better weekend than Sheila Small could have guessed. Sam and I found a flat. And not just any flat—a large flat, a vast flat, furnished, on the first floor of Penrith Mansions, a red-brick block overlooking the Thames in Chelsea. I was at first surprised that it had been so easy—until I realized that with so many men away at the war, and with so many dead already, there were empty flats and houses all over London, all over the country. It was sobering.
The flat had a huge living room, with two sets of full-length windows giving a view onto the river, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and four bedrooms, one for Sam and me, one for Will, when he got a bit bigger, and two spare. Sam had found the flat on Thursday, I saw it on the Saturday morning, and we moved in the next day. Between the block and the river there was a small patch of grass, a tiny park, where on good days Sam and Will would be able to sit out.
We spent the morning rearranging the furniture. During our stay at the small hotel in Bayswater, I had bought a gold band for Sam, so she wouldn’t attract any unwelcome stares, as had happened in Middle Hill. And we had shared a room, which meant sharing a bed. We had been self-conscious to begin with. Embarrassed even, and of course nothing occurred. But when we moved into Penrith Mansions, she put her clothing and mine in the same chest of drawers and the same tallboy in the biggest bedroom, the one with the best view of the Embankment and the river. That held out the promise of… I was encouraged.
In the afternoon we took a walk, exploring the area. Chelsea is one of those places you hear about, but I had never been before and had no preconceptions. I was agreeably surprised. There were lots of small streets, lovely old houses—small, large, and huge—with more trees lining the pavements than I had expected. It felt more like a village than the capital of the empire. There were a couple of decent churches in the vicinity, the Lister Hospital wasn’t far away, and, on our way back, we passed a picturesque pub, the Thomas More. It had a small garden, with rickety palings separating the seating from the street.
As we approached Penrith Mansions, on our return, I noticed a young woman sitting on the bench that was located on the patch of grass between the flats and the river. As soon as she saw us, she got up and moved purposefully in our direction.
“You expecting a visitor?” I said, turning to Sam.
She was fiddling with Will’s clothing at the time. “What?” she said. “What did you say?”
“There’s a woman over there—”
“Oh yes,” Sam said. “She’s early.” And she waved at the woman. “It’s my sister Charlotte. It’s Lottie.”
I could see now, as Lottie came closer, a faint family resemblance about the eyes. She was darker than Sam, shorter, a touch wider, but not unattractive, nowhere near as plain as I had been led to believe. She was wearing an off-white frock, flat shoes, and, like Sam, an Alice band.
The sisters kissed, Lottie kissed Will, who objected loudly, and then she looked up at me.
“Hal, this is Lottie … Lottie, this is Hal.”
We shook hands. “So you’re the hero,” said Lottie. She had more of a West Country burr in her voice than Sam did.
“I was only in the war for—”
“I meant you taking on Sam and the boy. Much braver than shooting Germans.” She smiled.
“I’m damaged goods, I’m afraid. Sam was doing me a favor.”
“Rubbish,” Sam whispered. “Now come on, you two. Will’s getting tired—that’s why he’s making such a noise. I need to feed him; then he’ll sleep.”
“Let me carry him,” said Lottie. “You must be tired, Sam, moving house and looking after the boy.” She took Will and cupped her arms around him.
I let us all in through the door to Penrith Mansions and we trudged up the stairs.
“I’ll make some tea,” I said as I turned the key in the lock. “Sam, you do what you have to with Will, and then show Lottie around.”
I noticed the sisters exchanging glances as I went through into the kitchen. The gas was on a meter but I had plenty of shillings. I filled the kettle with water and lit the ring. I readied a tray and took it through into the living room. The afternoon sun shone directly into the room and glittered on the river.
It took about five or six minutes for the kettle to boil and when I carried the teapot into the living room, Lottie was standing by the window, looking out.
“Sam’s putting Will to bed,” she said, turning. “I like the view.”
“We were lucky with this flat. Sam did well.”
“She did well, all right, finding you. Think this pretense marriage can work?”
She had been told the truth.
“It suits us both, Lottie, while the war lasts. Do you disapprove?”
She moved into the room. “Not if you really love her.”
“Ah, well. There’s no doubt there, I can promise you.”
“And after the war?”
I shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Just like that?”
“I told you. I’m in love with your sister. There’s a war on. Unusual situations are now normal, for the duration. I’m sorry if our arrangements seem wicked to you—”
“I didn’t say that and I wasn’t thinking it.” Lottie sat down. “She says you are a good man. She’s been through a lot, she’s been a bit of a chump, if you ask me, and it’s a good job our mother’s not alive … but if… she needs stability and she needs support, emotional, psychological, practical… if you can provide that… then for what it’s worth, you have my blessing.”
I started pouring the tea and as I did so Sam came through from our bedroom, and Lottie moved next to the fireplace. It had an elaborate, carved overmantel.
I flopped into a chair myself and said, “So, Lottie. What do you do? Are you married? Do you live near here?”
Instead of replying, she looked at Sam. They exchanged glances as before.
“What is it?” I said.
Sam drank some tea before saying, “Lottie’s in a bit of a pickle … She’s been working in the West End, in the theater, as an assistant to Todd Makepiece—maybe you’ve heard of him… he’s a director?”
I shook my head. What was coming?
“Well, Todd’s been asked to take a show on the road, to France, to entertain the troops. Of course, he can’t say no—he doesn’t want to say no. But the money’s tight, there’s some danger, and… the long and short of it is… Lottie’s out of work. She’s been living in the West End, in a tiny flat near the theater, but she can’t afford it anymore.” Sam put her teacup and saucer on the low table and looked up at me. “I thought she could maybe stay here for a bit, till she finds another job. She could have one of the spare rooms and maybe babysit, so you and I can get out now and then. Do you mind?”
Did I mind? It was a bit sudden. It was very sudden, but did I mind? I—we—now had Lottie’s blessing.
“I don’t know if I mind, Sam. You and I have spent exactly
ten nights together so far. I’m not sure it’s completely fair for you to spring this on me, but”—I raised my voice as she attempted to interrupt—“but… when I was at the Front, we had a show that had been sent out from London, and I can’t tell you how much everyone loved it.” I smiled at both of them. “So I’m not going to be hard-hearted about this. I’m sure Lottie will find another job soon. Of course she can stay here for a while.”
At which Lottie jumped up, rushed across the room, and gave me a big kiss.
That night, our first night in Penrith Mansions, was different from all the other nights that had gone before, and we both knew it. The hotel in Bayswater had been a temporary stopgap but now, in the Chelsea flat, the flat where we would be living for the foreseeable future, as man and wife, we were sharing a bed and there was no hiding the fact.
I was sitting against the pillows in my pajamas, reading, when Sam came through into the bedroom from the bathroom. She smelled of toothpaste, and soap, and Will (she always smelled a bit of Will) and, as she took off her dressing gown, her nightdress underneath could not conceal the fact that she had taken off her camisole. I hope I may be forgiven for saying this, but although they were concealed by the pink cotton of her nightdress, her breasts moved in a way that I had never seen before. I thought I had been aroused enough for ten men on that hill overlooking Quinton Villa. How much more was I aroused now?
She went to the window and looked out at the river. “Will’s asleep. Out cold. I think he likes it that there’s more than just me around.”
She pulled the curtains closed and slipped into bed. Her smell grew stronger.
I felt out of breath.
She leaned over and kissed my shoulder. “Not yet, Hal. Not long, I hope, but not yet. Sorry.”
Dear Hal,
You were right, and I was wrong. War is every bit as bloody—bloody horrible, bloody tragic, bloody stupid, and just plain bloody—as you said it was. How I miss our cozy evening in that pub in Stratford, and how long ago that seems now. I especially miss the taste of a G&T.
I’m sorry I haven’t written before. To be frank, this unit took a bit of getting used to, and to be even franker (is there such a word, bookworm?), we get a lot nearer the Front, the actual action, than I anticipated, and that has taken some getting used to as well. It’s some comfort that I’m a nurse—not actually firing any weapons in anger. Our unit is saving lives, here and there, where we can.
Gifts of War Page 14