The Amber Shadows

by Lucy Ribchester

  She took one last look back at the gardens as she stepped once again into the dark of the lobby. The woman in the wheelchair raised her head again. Her eyes smiled above the scarf that covered her mouth.

  In the lobby the doctor turned the brass handle of a door at the bottom of the stairs and gestured for her to pass. It was at that moment the adrenaline rose to an unbearable swell and she felt the urge to spin around, tear down the front path, past the village green, hide in the back barn of the Old Ostrich, secrete herself in the postal carriage of the next train. Bletchley was out of the question. London. She could disappear in London – forge papers, find herself a space in an old bomb shelter. She would live like a tramp for as long as it took for the war to end. She would find refugees and fetch soup for them and nurse the wounded and help the war effort, but she would not, she could not be incarcerated. She could not be manacled. Like Moira.

  The doctor gestured for her to sit. She lowered her clipboard onto a large dark wood desk; it hit the blotter with a slap. Honey noticed how clean the desk was compared to Tiver’s. There were no pens, no paperclips, no pairs of scissors. Even the plastic flowers were in a Bakelite cup. Grimly she realised why. Soft edges.

  ‘Can I see your Bletchley Park papers?’ the doctor asked again.

  Her tone had changed from childlike calm. It seemed to speak of an authority that Honey must obey. And yet she found herself hesitating. The gas mask box sat on her lap. She felt her hands slide protectively about its clasp.

  ‘I don’t know what park you’re talking about. I told you I’m a typist for the Foreign Office. I live in London. Can I ask why you’ve brought me in here?’

  The doctor looked around, and it seemed to Honey a glimmer came into her eyes. ‘You’ve had a bereavement recently, haven’t you?’

  She shook her head.

  The doctor sighed. ‘Very well. Let’s keep it this way, shall we. I don’t know what you FO lot are up to down there, but I’ve spoken to Tiver on the telephone and he’s agreed to let you see her. For five minutes. I’ll let him deal with you when you get back there.’

  Honey’s heart seized. She felt herself start forward, then consciously leaned back very slowly until her spine made contact with the ribs of wood on the back of the chair. ‘Is this a trick?’

  ‘No, Miss Deschamps. It’s a rest clinic for people who have severe nerve strain. I’m afraid for the benefit of your friend and others we’ve been instructed to keep her in isolation until further notice, because of the nature of her work. Don’t mistake me, we don’t know what it is you do, but it’s really no more sinister than that. As your own paranoia demonstrates, there is a lot of tension in the air about careless talk.’

  Sweat that she hadn’t been aware of until now began pooling cold between her shoulderblades, dampening her blouse. She looked around the room. In that sudden moment its terrifying austerity softened. She saw the windows for what they were, lungs to let in fresh air. The flowers were not plastic at all but cheerful winter blooms, fresh-picked, with that hard plaque look that Christmas foliage always had. The desk was clean and ordered, not ominously hazardless. Most importantly the doctor was not about to look inside her gas mask case, find the amber, and demand an explanation.

  The doctor saw her looking and went on. ‘Tiver’s not a monster, you know, Miss Deschamps. And Miss Draper is being looked after, I promise. She’s by herself. She can’t be with others for reasons you know. But she’s getting better. Let me take you to the parlour.’

  As they passed the reception desk the doctor made a gesture with her hand to the woman behind the counter and she began to follow too. She sandwiched Honey, bringing up the rear, and Honey felt her blood draw a wash of cold fear again. The gas mask box bumped against her thighs as she squeezed through the narrow doorway into the parlour. It was the same room she had peeped into from the outside. Ludo boards lay abandoned on tables, along with several days’ newspapers, some of which were propped on the piano stand. As Honey looked closer she saw several of the headlines had been cut out. There was the sound of a gentle wireless playing, and from somewhere further away, a water sound, like a fountain, or a tap that had been left running.

  The doctor left via another door on the opposite wall. As Honey made a move to follow she raised her arm as a bar. ‘Just wait here, will you?’

  Honey looked to the receptionist, who raised her hand and pointed to a sofa. She still felt too agitated to sit, so instead moved towards the window. Outside she could see Felix strolling the perimeter with a cigarette hanging at an angle from his mouth. He had both hands in his pockets and sometimes looked towards the windows when he plucked the cigarette from his lips, letting the smoke out in a thin track.

  ‘Have a seat,’ the woman said.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The receptionist idled by the piano, tidying and straightening the loose-leaf music and newspapers. From the corner of her eye Honey spied a Tchaikovsky suite arrangement and shuddered. Gradually she became aware the woman was not going to leave, and her hand fell back to the gas mask case. It was impossible. It would be impossible to show Moira the carvings again if she stayed.

  The door on the opposite side of the room opened. Honey didn’t know what she had expected to see but it wasn’t the Moira she got. She looked almost like herself, but very slightly different, as if another spirit had crept inside her body, replacing certain parts of her. She was cheerful and a little hazy. As she looked around the room her gaze would latch onto something and then blink away. She didn’t say anything but stretched out her arms in front of her, and Honey took the offered hands, squeezing them as tightly as she could, then awkwardly moved into an embrace. The different wools of their cardigans and the silks of their blouses flared alive with static as they pulled apart.

  There was a puffiness to Moira’s face. She had been crying not too long ago. But for now her tears were boxed away, and she looked up with a detached happiness, the kind a distant aunt might bring to dinner.

  ‘Hello, old girl. I bet you didn’t expect to find me here.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her pristine chestnut wave had sagged. She had put on make-up – rouge and mascara – but it had all been done in haste and the mascara globbed on the ends of her lashes, giving her a clotted, showgirl look.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ She pointed at the sofa. Honey heard the door click closed, looked up and saw the receptionist leaning against it.

  ‘I’m allowed five minutes, they say. But I just wanted to . . . Oh Moira, look at you. You’re here but you’re all right, aren’t you? They’re taking care of you?’

  Moira flashed a glance at the woman beside the door. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And your family. They know you’re here?’

  ‘I . . . I think so.’

  ‘What do you mean, think? They haven’t had a letter from them?’

  Moira smiled, a tight, friendly expression. ‘Of course not. They can’t trust me not to talk, you see. I’m not allowed to write to anyone. The doctors think it best.’

  ‘The doctors.’

  She dropped her voice. ‘Honey . . .’ The woman took a noisy step closer and began arranging a vase of mistletoe and firs on a dresser beside the door. ‘You know why I’m being kept solitary. Shall we have some tea?’ She pointed to a table beside the piano where an urn stood next to a stack of cups. When Honey came closer she saw that the cups were pink Bakelite, the saucers too. Moira’s hand trembled as she drew two cups from the urn. The tea was stewed and floating, weaker than the stuff at the Park, and tepid, almost cold. They stirred in powdered milk from an earthenware pot with a spoon attached to it by a chain.

  ‘I know why you’re here.’ Moira looked into her teacup. Her hand twitched on her knee. It was distracting, the soft scratch of skin on wool.

  ‘I have to know what’s written on them.’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ .

  Honey thought carefully whether to tell Moira about Dickie, and in the
end couldn’t bear to turn it into words. ‘Yes, it really matters,’ she said. ‘Those workings you did, the notes on the back of the payslips—’

  ‘You got them?’

  ‘I thought you’d stolen the wage slips, that was why they took you away.’

  Moira’s head shook tightly. She had a film of water over her eyes that she was keeping static, like two small thin ponds. No tears were flowing yet, but they were on the alert, ready.

  ‘What were you doing with Rupert’s wage slip?’

  Moira shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He must have dropped it. I sometimes pick up bits and pieces of paper in the hut and maybe I meant to give it back to him but put it in my pocket instead. I don’t know what I did the scribbles on, it was so late and I was thinking about . . .’ Her hand shook the teacup, and waves of liquid rose, overspilling the lip; little pasty gold rivers landing in splashes on the saucer and on her skirt. ‘Oh God, look what I’ve done.’

  Honey stood and looked around for a napkin. The woman at the door produced a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and silently held it out.

  Honey gave it to Moira and watched for a second as she dabbed at her skirt. She sat back down and unclipped the latch on the gas mask box. Please, she tried to say with her eyes, catching Moira’s. Please help me, and YU do anything I can to get you out.

  ‘It’s no good, Honey. I don’t think they want me back at Bletchley. Three strikes and I’m out – isn’t that what they say in America?’

  ‘I just need to know. It’s driving me . . .’ She stopped short.

  She pulled out the first set of panels, still wrapped in fur. Moira’s hand stopped her as she began to unfurl them, and she shook her head gently.

  ‘You said . . .’ Honey dropped her voice. ‘You said a name. Something beginning with V. A type of. . . . you know what.’

  ‘Listen carefully.’ Moira’s voice cracked. She spoke loudly so there could be no mistake about secrecy, no impression they were trying to hide anything. ‘These games these Park boys play are damned silly. If you ask me, sending a girl creepy trinkets when you’re trying to woo her in the middle of a war is foolish. It’s the sort of thing one of those RAF men we met at the dance would do.’ The cup on her knee jigged again, her eye went to it, blinked, then flicked over to the woman by the door. ‘I mean, the boys that we met at that RAF dance, at Wavendon. Those sorts of boys. They’re the foolish-minded kind of boys, the kind of boys who might think it’s romantic. The way they think it’s romantic to go wandering off around the backs of huts. That sort of a boy.’

  Honey couldn’t follow the code of what she was trying to say, but her own body language wasn’t up to conveying this to Moira. She shook her head mildly then followed Moira’s gaze down to the shaking teacup. She put her hand on Moira’s arm and the shaking briefly stopped.

  ‘Amber comes from the Baltic,’ Moira said very quickly. ‘If I were you, I’d ask that boy from the dance if he’s your secret Valentine.’

  ‘But how could he know about my . . .’ The penny dropped. Moira had worked in the Cottage. The boy behind the huts, the one who had opened the hut door, that was how she had known his name – from the Cottage. The boy might not have anything to do with the amber. But he must know how to break a cipher.

  She squeezed Moira’s hand and the teacup lurched, slipping from Moira’s grasp. It tumbled to the floor, bouncing off the sofa sides, spilling khaki brown onto the rose chinz, turning blue flowers to green, and then onto Moira’s ankle, dripping down into her shoe. Moira yelped and put both hands to her mouth.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘Sometimes my hands shake so much I think the only way to stop them is to throw something. And then it just slips my fingers, like my body doesn’t want to risk me throwing it.’

  ‘It’s all right, sit back down.’

  Honey grabbed the cup and fumbled it back empty onto Moira’s knee.

  ‘I think you’ve probably had enough,’ the woman by the door said. Honey grabbed the wet handkerchief and began to mop at the spot where the tea had landed, but the cloth grew sopping quickly. She looked up at the receptionist. The woman let the breath hiss between her teeth and left the room, leaving the door wide open.

  Moira seized Honey’s wrist. ‘His name is—’

  ‘I know. Piotr. How do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t. I only know his name. I heard of him. The Cottage. The . . .’ She broke off. ‘There isn’t time, but Honey, find him. They’re in Wavendon, the Polish codebreakers. They don’t work at the Park, they’re not allowed. But I swear to you he’s the best. He gave blueprints to the Cottage – those machines they built, for Hut 11 . . . he invented an early version of them. Everyone knows his name in there. The Station Inn is where the temporary billets are, I think.’

  ‘And what if—’

  Moira hissed at her to hush.

  ‘Honey, there’s something else.’ Her eyes flicked up to the open door. Footsteps echoed far away on the corridor. Honey slid her foot around slowly in the shining patch of tea on the floor; she watched the puddle slip about under her cork toe. She looked back up but Moira wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘I don’t know what they’re going to do to me. Did you see that building, to the side of the house? They call it the sick bay. It’s for the worst cases. That’s where I live now. There’s bars on the door, I don’t have any . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t have any privacy.’ Her shaking had slowed but her voice trembled. ‘They’ll tell you it’s nice in here. They’ll show you this part but . . .’ She pulled her skirt a little lower over her legs; just an inch. ‘In America they cut out part of your brain, the part that makes you mad. Only sometimes they slip and take more than they need. And you don’t quite know what you’re going to be left with until the job’s done. They’re talking about electricity here. Giving shocks to soldiers. I know it. A man sent back from Africa, the man who throws stones around the pond, he’s had it.’

  Honey looked to the open door. It was a blank, gaping dangerous maw. The footsteps were still far away.

  Moira wiped the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The thing is, if they take my mind, I don’t know what will be left of me. If they do something with my brain, and I can’t get it back, will you keep the secret, that I saved that ship once? Will you keep it safe for me? Tell no one. I trust you. Oh, but Honey, maybe one day you’ll be allowed to say.’

  Honey felt the strap of the gas mask box trapped under her knee, pressing into her thigh. She could see out of the corner of her eye Felix through the window, sitting down on a bench by the pond. ‘No more secrets,’ she began to say, but Moira’s face was so brutal, so afraid, she could only nod.

  ‘It was a silly old thing. I made a breakthrough with a message. There were no T’s in it. So odd, I thought, not to see a single letter scrambled into a T in the whole message.

  I realised then that it was because the operator was testing the Enigma machine, testing the day’s settings. He had his finger down on the T button. You see you can’t scramble another Enigma letter as itself. Did you know that?’

  Honey shook her head.

  ‘There you go. I broke into the key that day. We got the lot. And I can’t even write down what I did. All I’ll have is the memory of it. And if they take that memory away, if they take my mind . . . Silly to be so proud, but that’s that. That’s what I did. And even this. . . this now, whatever I’ve done to deserve being here . . . well, that day, no one can take that from me. As long as someone knows the story. Will you keep it safe? I’ll keep your secret safe in return.’

  The woman walked back into the room, brandishing a mop and a bucket of foul-smelling hot liquid.

  Moira stood. Honey took her left hand but she couldn’t bear to embrace her. She would fall to pieces, she would fall to the ground, she knew it.

  ‘Thank you,’ was all Moira said.

  Chapter 18

  ‘I’m all out of Player’s, I’m afraid.’

  Felix was standing o
n the front path, a small distance from the woman in the wheelchair, when Honey emerged. The sun had dipped behind a cloud and the light had turned cold and grey. ‘I suppose a picnic is out of the question?’

  Honey walked past him. She gathered her summer coat more closely around her. Stupid, stupid, to think she could disguise herself with a hat and thin blue coat. And for what? ‘I have to go to Wavendon,’ she said.

  He held her gaze. ‘Very well.’

  ‘You should go on to Cambridge. You should catch the next train.’

  ‘Oxford.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s what I meant.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be late for the luncheon now for certain, and the truth is I’d rather stay with you.’

  ‘Well, you can’t.’ She moved ahead of him towards the end of the pebbled lane.

  ‘Honey, wait. What did she tell you?’

  Honey shook her head tightly. They had reached the little road that led back into the village. The track was muddy with the melting of the dawn frost. Honey’s shoes stuck crisply with each step.

  ‘For God’s sake, Honey, I work at the Park too.’

  ‘Then you know the rules.’

  ‘But this isn’t about the Park. This is about your brother.’

  She turned and looked at him keenly, searching his face. His brow had furrowed and he looked confused. ‘How do you know,’ she said, ‘my brother didn’t work at the Park too? And I didn’t tell you.’

  He held her gaze until she looked down at the mud and her shoes. ‘You’re paranoid. They’ve got to you. With their posters and their warnings. Fifth columnists, spies hiding in every bushel of hay. Why, talking like this in the fields and the open air we could be eavesdropped on by any number of German parachutists, just plonked down to target you – just you, out of the millions of others they’re slaughtering.’