My dressing-gowned father departed with his usual measured gait, followed closely by the policeman who turned to me before he left and muttered, ‘Sorry about this, Miss Lottie. Wouldn’t have got you into trouble for all the world.’
After he had gone Harry stared at me.
‘He knows you?’
I sighed. I had forgotten that PC Hobbs came round once a month on a Saturday morning to sort out my father’s innumerable motoring offences, which must all come under the Official Secrets Act, because my mother had told me that since he had to be in such strange places at such strange times, normal motoring rules couldn’t apply to him.
‘It’s difficult to explain,’ I said, a little hopelessly.
‘I only did what you told me to do,’ Harry said, climbing back out of the dining-room window.
‘No, wait,’ I said.
He turned.
‘Might as well finish the lesson.’
‘But what about …?’
Harry pointed at the ceiling and we both imagined PC Hobbs and my father together upstairs, muttering about streets and roads and traffic lights, and scribbling things.
‘My father won’t be down for hours. He has a bath on Saturday mornings where he washes his hair and sings his favourite songs. And PC Hobbs will leave by the front door.’
Absentmindedly, I picked my father’s swordstick off the back of the dining chair and dropped it. It fell apart. Harry stared first at it and then at me.
‘No point in asking, I suppose, is there?’
I slowly shook my head and just as slowly put the blasted thing together. No, there was no point in asking, but for a few seconds as Harry went on staring, which was only understandable, I was tempted to tell him that my father was a spy and life at Dingley Dell was always like this. But then I realised it would probably mean I would go to prison, and I didn’t fancy that much, so I shut my trap and settled for wishing once again that my father was a stockbroker, or a merchant banker – any profession where he would not have to go about with swordsticks and other weapons.
That was the last morning when a fox jumped over a lazy dog at Dingley Dell. The Olivetti was returned to its normal place, and Harry joined the night school where I would meet him afterwards. We would go for a coffee and plan a glittering future for him, one where he starred in his own plays and became rich and famous. Neither of us ever referred to the swordstick or the policeman again. Perhaps we both sensed it was one of those episodes in life when the less said the better, but for many weeks he avoided coming within even spitting distance of Dingley Dell, and we both knew why – especially me.
INTERROGATIONS
Arabella was back in the Section working for Rosalie. I had expected her to be moving on to greater things, but it seemed she had turned down promotion on the understanding that work in the Section could be made more exciting for her. It was philanthropic, patriotic, and I was most impressed – until I realised that the promotion would have meant Arabella missing out on lunches at Fenwick’s.
‘Don’t want to go to Brackenwood House,’ she told me over a delicious Fenwick’s salad. ‘The atmosphere there is too concentrated.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know there’s a rumour going around that the Section might be dispersed due to lack of activity?’
I had not known but now that I did I was put out.
‘I’ll speak to my father,’ I said in my most show off-voice, which is actually very unattractive.
‘Your father will think of something,’ Arabella stated as a matter of fact. ‘After all, it was thanks to him that I had such a great time in the Why production office.’ She sighed, and I misinterpreted the sigh as one of regret. ‘I have to say that after what I saw those producers get up to, I couldn’t wait to get back to being with nice decent people like Rosalie, and spies. Oh, and you, of course,’ she added, rather too late.
At Dingley Dell that evening I blocked my father’s way to the drinks cupboard and asked him about the rumour going around that my Section was about to be disbanded due to the lack of genuine activity.
He gave me one of his looks, as always accompanied by a long silence.
‘I’ll think of something. New ideas needed. I’ll find some,’ he said, eventually.
I believed him because my father never made false promises. I stepped aside as his gaze had now switched over my shoulder to the drinks cupboard.
I was actually feeling vaguely indignant about the Section and the rumours about it, in a way that surprised me. I had not realised the affection that I felt for the place and all the good people who worked in it. I waited patiently for something to come of my father’s promise to me, and sure enough a few days later I was called into Commander Steerforth’s office.
He was feeling excited. I knew this because he had a pencil in his hand with which he was tapping out Morse code. When he was feeling excited – perhaps with chocolate cake in the offing – he liked to send the signals zipping across his desk, just like in the old days, to warn of a destroyer or a submarine. I knew this because he always warned me if I was in the way.
I waited for him to sink a destroyer or warn of a stealthy submarine before he told me what the exciting news might be.
‘The Section’s taking a new direction, it seems. Word has come in from Brackenwood House,’ he said in an excited voice. ‘We are to start on exercises as soon as possible, in the Section – not on Salisbury Plain or anything like that.’
‘Nothing involving security films?’ I asked nervously.
‘No, no – this is to prepare ourselves in the event of another war.’
I tried to look nonchalant, which along with some of my other facial expressions was not a winner. I knew this because Commander Steerforth leaped to his feet and fetched me a glass of water.
‘We are not prepared for all eventualities … any eventuality really. What if there was an attack on the Section? We’re just not prepared.’
He stood up and I don’t know why I knew that he could hear the sound of the sea, and that he felt he was alone on the bridge again, swaying along with the movement of the rolling waters below. I suppose it helped that he kept flapping his hands and muttering, ‘Dratted seagulls.’
‘I daresay we will have to practise things like interrogation? In the event of war we might have no MI5 officers – or even, say, nurses or doctors?’ I suggested.
When I saw Commander Steerforth’s expression light up, I wished I hadn’t mentioned interrogation.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Interrogation techniques will certainly have to be gone through.’ He went to his desk. ‘I have a handbook here somewhere.’ He took out a pristine volume. ‘Yes, here it is.’ He opened it, and then put it down. ‘Best go through it later. It looks a bit technical’.
I quickly flicked through it when he left the room.
Chapter One was entitled ‘Shoes’.
Just my sort of book, I thought, only to be sadly disillusioned when I discovered the opening paragraph was entirely lacking in any reference to fashion.
‘The first rule is always to make sure that you remove the suspect’s shoes because it makes it more difficult for him to escape.’
I put the book down. It felt like cheating to read it before anyone else had, even Commander Steerforth.
He came back into the room
‘Jolly good idea about nurses,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘we could get you all uniforms from some theatrical agency or other, couldn’t we? And perhaps a matron’s outfit for Miss Lovington?’
‘Oh, no, actually it is not a good idea,’ I said, quickly. ‘We can miss out on that, really we can. There’s a first-aid box under the stairs with Miss Lovington’s old ashtrays. It’s never been opened so all the bandages and plasters must be quite unused.’
‘Even so some nursing practice would be useful, I should have thought. We can borrow stretchers from somewhere, or a front door – used those in the war – and really get something practical going. Let’s make some notes, straig
ht away.’
I picked up my shorthand notebook and pencil, ready for further ideas.
‘Now on to interrogation exercises. I wonder how we should go about this … military fashion, of course. Close the Section, take one or two people – say a couple of the ladies from Files – and …’ Here he consulted the pristine booklet on his desk. ‘And remove their shoes. That way they will not run away. Although,’ he read on a little further, ‘it would be good if they tried, and we brought them down with a rugger tackle then took their shoes off.’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘We never took shoes off in the Navy, you know.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We threw them overboard.’
‘After interrogation?’ I asked, suddenly more interested.
‘Oh, no, before. Then we threw them a rope, and hauled them back on board, and held them upside down to get the water out of them.’ He sighed, nostalgically. ‘Mind you, I actually don’t remember getting anything useful out of prisoners after that. They were always too wrecked to remember their own names, let alone naval manoeuvres.’
I was looking at Commander Steerforth with renewed respect. He had experienced proper warfare. I knew I must concentrate better on interrogation exercises.
‘So,’ I said, pencil poised, ‘I suppose we’d better work out the first interrogation exercise. Is it up to us to start?’
It seemed it was, and there was no time to be wasted. He started to dictate a plan based loosely on what he had already outlined. Naturally we both agreed that our plan must rely on secrecy, no one else must know it and we must not know anyone else’s, so whatever Arabella and Rosalie might be planning was up to them, because, as Commander Steerforth pointed out, Chapter Two of the handbook stated ‘Surprise is Essential’.
I chose Doreen in Files because I knew she had finished her jumper and had a bit of time on her hands until her new wool arrived. Commander Steerforth was happy with this. He liked Doreen because she was always so cheerful, he said, but how best to surprise her?
He thought the better way would be to send her out on a mission to the canteen, and surprise her there. This we duly did.
‘Doreen,’ I said after our sudden arrival. ‘We are arresting you on suspicion of being a double agent.’
She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.
‘Lottie dear – we all know this is an exercise.’
‘No, Doreen,’ I said, happy that there was no one else in the canteen. ‘No, this is real life, and there is a war on.’
Commander Steerforth was guarding the door. I stepped forward but so did Doreen, and with one very effective movement threw me sideways.
‘Oh, dear,’ I said, picking up the canteen chair that had interrupted my fall.
‘Sorry, Lottie,’ she said as she helped me up. ‘I used to throw sides of beef to the lions in my father’s circus, before I took up knitting.’
I straightened up.
‘Well, do you think you could remove your shoes anyway?’
She gave me an old-fashioned look.
‘Oh, very well, but only once I get into Commander Steerforth’s office. I don’t want to get a splinter.’
Once in the office she removed her shoes and sat down in my chair opposite Commander Steerforth, who had his handbook out and was slowly turning the pages.
‘Now, Prisoner Number blank, blank – I want you to tell us what you were doing lurking about in the canteen?’
‘You sent me for some Victoria sponge, Commander Steerforth, remember? About five minutes ago.’
‘Oh, yes, so I did. And then what happened?’
‘Lottie here tried to arrest me and I threw her into a chair.’
I was hovering at the back of the room, but at this I stepped forward.
‘May I take over here for a minute, Commander, because I know the prisoner quite well?’
Commander Steerforth nodded.
‘If you want,’ he said a little hopelessly, and quickly turned the pages in the handbook to try and find further help before surrendering his place to me.
‘Doreen,’ I said in a kindly voice, ‘you must know more than you think after being in Files for so long. A great deal more has seeped into your brain than other people realise, wouldn’t you say?’
I thought I was giving a good imitation of my father, staring unblinkingly at her. I think it must have been better than my other looks because Doreen stared back at me, looking a bit put out. At any rate she agreed she did probably know more about the files than she or anyone else gave her credit for. Before long, by giving an imitation of my father’s technique when he found me back late from a party, I had her admitting to a knowledge of the contents of the PFs and even the SFs that not even she had realised she had.
‘That was really very good,’ Commander Steerforth said, after Doreen had put her shoes back on and left the room, saying she was happy to have been of help. ‘Your father does that, you say? All that staring and looking away? Most effective.’
He turned the pages of his booklet, and I saw that he was now skipping to Chapter Three – ‘Interrogation’.
I left him reading and went to thank Doreen.
‘What did you think? I mean of the way we handled you … if you had been, say, a communist aggressor?’
Doreen looked at me, and her expression was far too kindly to make me feel confident of her reply.
‘We had more success in the circus getting the lions to sit on the drums,’ she said, before nodding towards Arabella, who had emerged from Rosalie’s office looking startled.
‘She’s not having too good a time with Pauline,’ Arabella said, with some satisfaction.
‘Well, she wouldn’t. Pauline was an ARP warden in the war,’ Doreen informed her.
That evening I approached my father in some concern. I did not want to give the Section away, but I needed to know more about interrogation. What had been his methods in the war, for instance?
‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Give them a bottle of whisky and a kindly smile, tell them how sorry you felt for them, and they were so grateful you weren’t getting out the thumbscrews they would tell you anything. Glass of wine?’
I readily accepted the wine while mentally making a note that I had better tell Commander Steerforth and Rosalie about this, because judging by the suppressed laughter we heard every time we passed Files, we were not doing very well.
Back with Arabella in the Section, I was not in the least discouraged by the fact that we had used the wrong techniques. I told her what my father had done to get information out of spies and double agents during the war.
‘We can’t give them whisky,’ she said, with some justification. ‘Most of Files are teetotal.’
So my father’s wartime technique was ruled out, and instead we turned our thoughts to other things – namely Commander Steerforth, who was now looking very depressed, so depressed that not even a slice of Victoria sponge would cheer him up.
I instinctively knew that his depression was so serious I would have to go about tackling it very carefully, thoughtfully, and avoiding all possible hurt. Commander Steerforth was a widower of some years’ standing, which meant that the Section was virtually his second home. Of an evening he went back to a lonely poached egg on toast, or spinach – he did vary it with ketchup, he told me – and the wireless. His weekends were spent walking in the Park and talking to people with dogs, because his landlord did not allow him to have one of his own. He liked fishing but that could only happen when he was on leave, so his life, as far as I could tell, was a bit limited. This was why I had to be so careful. One word out of place and he might spiral ever downwards.
‘Sometimes,’ I said dramatically, putting down my pencil very suddenly when we were in the middle of a piece of particularly boring dictation, ‘you can feel got down by something and that no one can help you at all – that you are in the middle of nowhere, no flowers are growing, and there are no trees blossoming.’
He looked immediately concerned.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘This is not like you at all, Lottie, you’re usually the life and soul of the Section – posters on the filing cabinets and all that sort of thing. Shall we ever forget that lovely one of Marilyn Monroe? Then bright suggestions of all kinds – and you’re a wonder at producing cakes, even bringing them from home. No, Lottie, you must not be got down, no, no, not you.’ He stood up. ‘Tell you what: to cheer you up, I will get you cake instead of you getting me some. You know, officers and men in the regiment? Once a year the officers wait on the men. It cheers them up no end – the men, I mean, not the officers.’
‘No, no – no, really, no cake, please.’
‘I insist.’
Minutes later, looking triumphant, Commander Steerforth came back from the canteen with a cake on a plate. I stared at the cake and then at him and my heart sank. It was a bun stuffed with coconut, which has always made me feel sick – not the bun part, the coconut – but looking up at his happy expression, I knew that this bun had to be eaten, no matter what. While he thrust the plate at me I thought of the things people do for England and, really, eating coconut was very little compared to the war, and bombs, and things like that.
‘You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ he said when I had finished chewing.
I nodded and, making my excuses, quickly made for the Ladies’. It would be indiscreet to say any more, but when I emerged Arabella accosted me before I could return to take more dictation.
She always called Commander Steerforth the bloodhound on account of his expression and his jowly cheeks.
‘I know why the poor old bloodhound is down in the mouth,’ she confided. ‘Last night Rosalie interrogated him, in her office, without his shoes and everything, and guess what?’
I shook my head. I couldn’t guess anything.
‘He told all.’
MI5 and Me Page 14