Winston's Spy

by Robert Webber

  More advice, thought Alex, everybody seems to be full of advice these days!

  ‘Those for whom you are working do not understand failure. If you succeed, you survive; if you fail, you do not survive, and if you do not survive, you become irrelevant. You are an intelligent and well-bred man, and Britain needs men like you if she is to survive, so do not throw it all away by being careless or by not making the grade.

  ‘Go and get something to eat, then have a good night’s sleep; we start work at 06:00 hours sharp.’

  The meeting was at an end, and Alex began to make his way towards the former ballroom, but Sergeant Morton halted him.

  The sergeant stated, ‘That’s off limits to guests now, sir. You have separate catering now, in the village.’

  Alex looked perplexed; he did not understand the term “village”.

  ‘It’s what we call the huts where trainees are now billeted. The old refectory is used exclusively by permanent staff now, sir,’ Morton explained.

  Alex left, cursing Charles silently for not having explained the changes.

  *

  The food served in the village was undeniably a shadow of what Alex had enjoyed at the Grange previously. It was some type of meat pie served with watery potatoes and overcooked carrots, and a tasteless, brown sludge that purported to be gravy covered everything. Dessert was an apple sponge with custard and was the best part of the meal. Having eaten less than half of what was on his plate, Alex went back to hut C8 where he found the other two residents had returned.

  One approached Alex and introduced himself, ‘Bonjour, my name is Philippe, and this is Stefan. He is Hungarian; I am French.’ Philippe’s eagerness suggested that he had been learning English, and was keen to prove his prowess in the language.

  Although Alex could speak French, he responded in English. ‘I’m Alex.’ He shook their hands. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Philippe was about the same age as Alex, although slightly shorter. His neatly cut dark hair was stylish, and although he was dressed casually in a pair of flannels and an open-necked shirt, he managed, in the typical French style, to look elegant. Stefan appeared a year or two older, and he had the lean body of someone who exercised regularly. He wore blue workmen’s trousers and an off-white, crew-necked pullover; with his slightly too-long hair and beard stubble, Stefan looked like a labourer. There was a French cigarette sagging from Stefan’s mouth that bobbed up and down as he breathed. He raised his hand in welcome before returning to his book.

  ‘From, er, where are you coming?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘Oh, I’m British,’ lied Alex, ‘Well, Scottish anyway. My family are from just outside Edinburgh.’

  ‘Ah, oui, from Scotland where the men they wear the skirts, and the women they wear the trousers, non?’ Philippe clearly thought this was highly amusing, as he burst into a paroxysm of laughter.

  Alex smiled at his wit, but Stefan continued reading his book resolutely.

  *

  After a night of fitful slumber, Alex was awake early; after attempting to shave in freezing-cold water where his only success was in blunting his razor blade, he gave up and wondered what he would look like if he let his beard grow. How would Teddy react to a bearded Alex?

  He went for breakfast, and he found the canteen already buzzing with other early risers as he took his ration of bacon and scrambled egg, with a slice of bread and a mug of tea to a table. He was soon joined by Stefan, who asked if he may sit with him. Alex nodded in agreement, and the Hungarian joined him.

  To try to discover more about his roommate, Alex asked where he came from in Hungary.

  ‘Szolnok,’ was Stefan’s reply, ‘It is a city about 120 kilometres south-east of Budapest.’

  ‘Nice, is it?’ queried Alex.

  ‘It was, but our regent, Miklós Horthy, is almost a bigger Nazi than Hitler. Until last year, the Prime Minister was sympathetic to the fascists also, and although his successor tried to build bridges with Britain, in his heart he was also a fascist. I am not a fascist – I despise fascists – and I left my country to fight fascism.’

  Alex warmed to the passion of this man. Many East European countries kept peace with Hitler by supporting a Nazi-controlled Germany, as otherwise they were likely to be invaded.

  ‘So,’ continued the Hungarian, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘My father ran a demolitions business in Edinburgh.’ Alex continued the lie that he had learned from his cover story in the orders that Simon Potts had given him at Waterloo station. ‘I have been around explosives all my life, and the navy thought I might be more useful to them in less traditional ways.’

  ‘You do not have a Scottish accent.’

  ‘I had one once, but my father sent me to school in England, and they beat it out of me.’

  Stefan had finished his meal, so he stood and nodded at Alex. ‘I will see you later.’ He smiled, and took his tin plate and mug to the slops trolley.

  *

  A little while later, Alex returned to the hut, and rearranged his belongings precisely on a shelf and in his case, and then, after collecting the Swedish typewriter, he made his way to the instruction huts. The specialist from London had not yet arrived, and Alex spent morning retyping articles from old Swedish newspapers, getting more used to the layout of the keyboard so that the stroke pressure on the paper was even across the entire alphabet.

  Alex returned to his hut and noticed that somebody had moved his photograph of Teddy very slightly and that someone has also repositioned his case.

  Philippe was the only other occupant of the hut present, and he asked precisely when Alex came in, ‘Is that your petite amie? Trés chic!’ He complimented Alex.

  Of course, the movement of the suitcase and photograph might have been accidental, but Alex replaced them in their precise locations; he pulled a strand from his hair, which he lubricated with saliva and placed over the hasp of his suitcase lock. He lay down on the bed and catnapped for the next hour and a half.

  A messenger interrupted his daydreams by announcing that Captain Bell sent his compliments and would Alex join him in his office?

  Alex duly made his way to the main building and the captain’s office.

  The captain stood when Alex entered. ‘Alex, the specialist has arrived from London. May I introduce Miss Ulrika Nilsson? She will work with you for the next few weeks until she is satisfied that you are competent enough to write for a Swedish newspaper.’

  A young woman, who was not much older than Alex, rose from behind the wingback chair that was facing the fireplace. She was tall and blonde, as are so many Viking women, and perfectly proportioned. She had arranged her long hair so that it very nearly covered her left eye, and when she moved, Alex saw the remnants of a burn that extended down much of the left-hand side of her face, disfiguring what must have been a flawless beauty.

  She extended her right hand almost in Alex’s direction and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Alex,’ with almost perfect pronunciation. She was looking in the direction of her hand, slightly to Alex’s right, and he realised that she could not see him. He extended his hand and took hers, and she instantly turned her sightless eyes towards him and requested, ‘Forgive me, I have a small problem since my accident.’

  Alex, uncharitably, wondered at the worth of this specialist; how could she read his work and give instruction, if she was unable to see?

  Almost sensing his embarrassment, she rode to his rescue, explaining, ‘You are lucky; with me, you not only get to practise your writing, but also your speaking when you read to me.’ Her faced creased into a gigantic smile, and Alex knew that he was in safe hands.

  The captain intervened, ‘I shall leave you in Lieutenant Carlton’s charge. Alex, perhaps you will show Miss Nilsson around the Grange?’ His cheeks coloured slightly when he realised what he had said, and he continued quickly to hide his embarrassm
ent, ‘Miss Nilsson will be staying in the main house.’

  She slapped her thigh and whistled lightly, and a brown-and-white spaniel dog appeared by her side, wagging its tail ferociously. ‘This is Baldur, so named after the Norse god of rebirth, because through him I can see again; he is my eyes, and he helped me be reborn after losing my sight.’

  The dog looked at Alex and, deciding that he liked what he saw, wagged his tail and nuzzled Alex’s leg for affection. Alex scratched the dog’s nose, which met with approval.

  ‘Be careful what you say because Baldur understands. He is an English Springer, and so I only ever speak to him in English. If you want to keep a secret from him, you must speak in Swedish.’ Ulrika Nilsson smiled at Alex.

  Alex and Ulrika left the captain’s office. As Alex guided her around the grounds of the Grange, she was surefooted, and those who were unaware would never have believed that she was without sight. The dog trotted a little ahead of her and to her right.

  ‘I listen where Baldur takes me,’ she explained, and Alex understood the reason for the small bell attached to the dog’s collar, ‘He keeps me from danger.’

  *

  Alex collected the retyped sheets from his hut, and they made their way to the library in the old house as it was the quietest and least used room in the building. Alex spent the afternoon reading the articles and noting down corrections, either of grammar or pronunciation, as they were exposed.

  Most people enjoy the written word by reading, and few ever read what they have written out loud, but Alex was experiencing his own words in oral form by reading them out loud to somebody who could dissect each nuance and improve each phrase by merely listening. Alex was impressed by the skill that Ulrika Nilsson demonstrated, and he soon became convinced that she would make an uncompromising but insightful editor.

  He stuck to the task of improving his journalistic prose until Miss Nilsson seldom had to correct his errors. She only spoke Swedish to him, and he replied similarly, and his ability to converse improved quickly every day. At the end of two weeks, he was reading his own articles and was not being corrected, so she decided that it was time for Alex to write something unique based upon his own observations.

  Clearance was arranged for Ulrika and Alex to travel to Southampton, where large numbers of soldiers were being shipped across the English Channel to Cherbourg, Nantes and St Nazaire to bolster the British Expeditionary Force in France.

  They travelled to the port by military car, and she handed her Ministry of Information identity papers, together with his Royal Navy pass, to a petty officer at the gate, so that he could check the names against the list of authorised visitors. On entering the dock area, a corporal told them where to park, and, as they got out of the car, a military policeman told Miss Nilsson that dogs were not allowed in the port area. After consultation with his superior officer, the military policeman relented and confirmed that, on this occasion, an exception would be made, but the dog must be on the lead at all times. It was agreed, and a very young-looking sub-lieutenant arrived to be their chaperone.

  Alex met with several soldiers awaiting embarkation, and he chatted to them in an easy-going and conversational manner. All were keen to get stuck in, and Alex wondered whether he was only allowed to interview those who had agreed not to complain, not that it mattered much for the exercise at hand. He soon had enough information to be able to return and write an article.

  They thanked their chaperone and returned to the waiting car where Baldur displayed his happiness at being let off his lead by leaping into the car and beating a rhythmic drumbeat on the leather with his tail.

  XXI

  That very same morning, in London, Teddy awoke again to the gradually more disturbing realisation that her period had still not occurred. Teddy had always been as regular as clockwork, and she was approaching certainty that she was, as the Bible described it, with child. She had mixed emotions. On the one hand, her Catholic upbringing denounced her as a fallen woman, but, on the other, she was engaged to be married, and Teddy was determined to have and keep Alex’s child, even if, God forbid, the worst happened. The burning question in her mind was how she could get word to Alex that he was to become a father.

  Simon Potts was her understandable first choice, and she left a message on the number that he had given her, should she need it. Simon did not respond for several hours, and when he did, he was little help; he asked she wanted to do when Teddy told him of her predicament. Simon suggested that he could make some discreet enquiries about clinics if she wished. No, she bloody well did not wish and was frankly insulted to have been asked. Simon said that he did not know whether it would be possible to get a message to Alex, but he assured her he would try; privately, he doubted that the commander would sanction Alex knowing. It was far better that Alex had a pleasant surprise if he survived his mission than learning about it beforehand and fretting. Nevertheless, he did speak with Commander Jeffers, who rolled his eyes in despair, and ordered Simon categorically not to tell Alex, ‘Under any circumstance!’

  Teddy told Alex’s mother at their next coffee morning, which had become a regular get-together since Alex had left; his mother sighed and smiled, confiding in Teddy that she had thought as much.

  The purchase of the Gloucestershire house was almost complete, and Uncle Walter anticipated that the exchange of contracts would occur within the next couple of weeks, so Alex’s mother was now doubly happy that her future daughter-in-law had agreed to move to the country with her.

  Teddy mentioned the prospect to her own mother, who urged Teddy more pragmatically to see about marrying Alex before the child was born, so that it would not arrive while Teddy and Alex were unmarried. Teddy believed her mother was happy at the prospect of becoming a grandmother but equally understood why this should remain secret from her father.

  *

  Alex, meanwhile, had been out on several other outings with Ulrika Nilsson, and they were starting to forge a close working relationship. He learned that her blindness was the result of a car accident, which her husband had not survived; she had been “lucky”, as she had been dragged from the burning car by the passenger from the other vehicle. Although her journalistic career was over, she was determined to work and started to take on private tuition, but, latterly, had been helping the British government with speech patterns; a task where being blind was a distinct advantage.

  Alex took copious notes in Swedish during these trips out, and he would write an article the following day. During the evening immediately following a trip out, he would often walk around the grounds of the Grange, formulating the story quietly and organising his thoughts ready to start beating it out on his typewriter the following day. It was during one of these nocturnal strolls that calamity befell him.

  He was walking through the woods that bounded the shoreline, and he was generally following the perimeter wire when he heard voices. Alex slowed but continued with caution, stopping by the side of a large oak tree as the voices got much closer, and he looked ahead, hoping for a shaft of moonlight as illumination. He was unlucky. Straining his ears, he struggled to understand what the conversation was about, but he concluded eventually that the discussion was in German.

  As he moved slightly to try to hear better, his foot landed on a dry twig that snapped, halting the conversation ahead instantly. Somebody moved back along the path, and Alex recognised the silhouette of his roommate Stefan. Initially, somewhat naively, he felt relieved, but then the full realisation of what he had seen hit him. Remembering his earlier training, he lowered himself silently into a crouched position, camouflaged in the dark, but ready to lunge if challenged; people, he recalled from his earlier training, expect to see other people at eye level.

  Stefan moved forwards and passed within three feet of Alex, searching for the cause of the snapped twig. A fox barked close by, and Stefan turned towards the sound of the noise, and continued forwards, his eyes
darting from left to right, searching the woodland. Alex’s heart was beating, and he was sure that the sound would carry, but he kept still. Stefan returned warily to the fence line, still not convinced that a random fox had caused the snapped twig.

  Alex was confused. His head told him what he had witnessed, but his heart did not want to believe it. Could he actually be in the presence of a genuine enemy agent? If so, what should he do? Crouching as he still was, coupled with fear, brought on a cramp in his leg, and Alex rose silently, flexing his leg muscles to dispel the pain and to get the blood flowing again. He pulled his collar up against a chill that was more fear than temperature, and Alex realised that, should he stay where he was, Stefan would certainly discover him when returning along the path.

  The earlier hoped-for moon chose to brighten the scene before him, and Alex saw Stefan talking with somebody on the other side of the perimeter fence. This much he knew already, but the moon’s brightness gave Alex a clear impression that Stefan was talking to a woman. The moon’s brightness was momentary, and, as a cloud again darkened the night, Alex stepped back gently into the path and headed back to his hut, taking more care to move silently.

  After reaching the hut and letting himself in, Alex undressed quickly and slid under the blankets of his bed, his mind a whirlpool of uncertainty. When Stefan returned about twenty minutes later, Alex feigned sleep, making quiet snoring sounds in the hope that this is what he sounded like when sleeping. Stefan looked towards Alex’s cot and then at Philippe’s sleeping form, and, having satisfied himself that his entrance had been unnoticed, he undressed and got into bed.

  *

  The next morning, Alex rose early and washed in cold water. He admired the beginnings of his beard and decided it needed styling into shape. Alex dressed in loose-fitting casual clothes, and secreted the FN pistol surreptitiously in his belt at the small of his back, copying what he had seen in films. He went to the toilet, locked the door, sat down and double-checked that nobody had tampered with his pistol.