by Seb Spence
“Hello, again, Mr. Miller. It looks as if I’ll be able to help you with your tricks after all,” she said, rather half-heartedly.
Miller looked round, startled slightly by the voice, but his face brightened immediately when he recognized her. He stood up.
“Well, well!” he said, hurriedly screwing the cap on his flask and slipping it into a pocket of his tuxedo. “Can’t resist the lure of the stage, eh? I’m very grateful to you, Miss…?” He looked at her expectantly.
“Harrison, Grace Harrison.”
“I’m very grateful to you Miss Harrison; you’ve got me out of a fix. ‘Professor Prospero’ welcomes you to his act.
“I don’t see much progress since I left.”
“No, I’ve been thinking about old times,” he said, holding up the matchbox. “This was the first illusion – or trick, as you call it – that I ever performed.” He began to demonstrate it. “You put a small object in the box, close it and then re-open it – hey presto, the object seems to have disappeared. It’s dead simple really – there’s a false partition in the box and the object is concealed behind it. I was twelve when I first did this trick. My pals were amazed by it. I was so proud. How times change.”
“Anyway,” he continued, putting the matchbox in his trouser pocket, “I suppose we’d better crack on – there’s a lot you have to learn.” He went over to one of the cases on the stage and, opening it up, began searching amongst its contents. “I think we’ll start by going through the parasol illusion, not that it’s much of a day for parasols – I think it’s going to rain soon.”
#
Barrage balloons were temperamental things: they had a tendency to make a bid for freedom whenever the wind picked up, and could cause havoc when they got loose. Pilot Officer Barton wondered sometimes if they were more trouble than they were worth. Only last week, one had broken free in Bedfordshire, dragging its steel mooring cable across an overhead power line and blacking out a large part of the county. Power to dozens of factories had been cut, resulting in several weeks’ worth of lost war production.
As well as impacting the war effort, these rogue balloons were a particular inconvenience to Barton as it was part of his job to find and retrieve them, or at least the ones that went AWOL in and around London. The Balloon Recovery Unit he commanded was one of several covering the capital and its environs, and he and his men trailed around the Home Counties endlessly in pursuit of the things.
In fact, Barton’s job involved more than just rounding up these strays: he was a technical specialist at the Balloon Development Establishment, attached to a section that was concerned with improving mooring technology. His main task was to determine how and why a balloon got free, so that appropriate countermeasures could be developed. Snapped cables, faulty winches, operator error, defective anchor points were just a few of the reasons for these incidents, and it was Barton’s job to do the detective work to pinpoint the cause.
The latest fugitive had been sighted near the village of Bramlington in Kent by a farmer who had reported seeing it drifting low over his fields and heading towards some local landmark called Pottinger’s Wood. Barton had gone on ahead of the recovery team to find out precisely where it had landed but was having difficulty locating the place. It was the usual problem: all the road signs had been removed because of the invasion threat. Whoever had this idea had overlooked the fact that as well as confusing German paratroopers, it might have the same effect on the British side.
Navigating from a map while steering a car was tricky and prone to errors. Barton had been driving about the area for nearly an hour trying to locate either the farm or the wood and now realised he had gone round in a circle, for he found himself approaching Bramlington for the second time. A heavy shower had come on, and the water streaming down the windscreen was adding to the difficulties of navigating. He decided to stop in the village and ask for directions.
It was after five o’clock, and as he drove down the main street he noted the place seemed deserted. He was about to pull up and knock on someone’s door, when in the distance he saw two women hurry across the street ahead of him and disappear down a road at the side of the post office. He decided to catch up with them and turned into the road just in time to see them enter what appeared to be the village hall. He parked outside and, putting on his raincoat over his uniform, followed them in.
There was a lot of noise coming from the hall: applause and the sound of children laughing and shouting. Passing through the vestibule, he stopped in the doorway of the main room. There seemed to be some kind of show going on – a magic act by the look of it. On a low stage at the far end of the hall, a man in evening dress was producing playing cards seemingly from thin air and dropping them into a top hat. A couple of rows of chairs had been set out in front of the stage and were occupied by kids, who were clearly enjoying the show. Standing behind the children were a few dozen adults, mainly women, all watching the performance intently. No one had noticed him come in.
To the left of the door where he was standing, along the back of the hall, three trestle tables had been placed end-to-end to form one long table, which had been laid out with mugs and plates of biscuits and sandwiches. Beyond the end of the table, on the far wall, was an open hatch, which led through to a kitchen area. He could see two women in aprons working there.
Barton turned his attention to the adults at the back of the audience and wondered who it would be best to approach for directions. As he looked along the row, he became aware that a very attractive, dark-haired girl in a blue polka-dot dress had just joined the conjuror on the stage. She was twirling an opened parasol over her shoulder and smiling out at the audience. He suspended his quest for directions and focused on the act. The man in evening dress asked the girl if he could borrow her parasol. After passing it over, she looked on in mock horror as he started to slash it with an ornate dagger. Facing the audience, he swung the mutilated parasol slowly sideways in front of him so that they could see the shredded material. He then closed it up, muttered an incantation and reopened it to reveal an intact and undamaged parasol.
The trick continued. The man passed the opened parasol back to the girl and asked her to invert it and hold it out in front of her. He produced several scarves and a bunch of paper flowers from an apparently empty hand and tossed them into the upturned parasol, which he then took from the girl, closed and waved around his head. With a flourish, he opened it again and held it up to the audience to reveal that the contents had vanished.
To be honest, Barton was not really paying much attention to the tricks: he was more interested in the girl. She had an oval face with attractive eyes and high cheekbones; as well as being beautiful, it had a friendly warmth. She seemed to be enjoying the act and was smiling and laughing as much as the kids.
And then came the finale. Giving the parasol to the girl again, the man asked her to invert it once more and, going over to a small table at the side of the stage, he returned with a glass jug filled with water. This he poured into the upturned parasol, which he then took from the girl and carefully closed. He held it up to the audience and tapped it with a wand. He then returned it to the girl and, standing back, asked her to hold it over her head and open it. She looked out at the audience, feigning apprehension. Barton noticed that the kids had gone quiet. They were sitting on the edges of their seats now, watching gleefully and no doubt hoping to see her get a drenching.
The girl raised the closed parasol over her head and looked across at the conjuror; this time the apprehensive look was genuine. She opened it and was promptly showered with – confetti. The hall erupted into laughter and applause. The magician and the girl took a bow, and then the children, realising the show was over, started to run, shouting and screaming, across to the table at the back of the hall.
Barton was aware that several of the adults had turned around and were staring at him. He took off his cap and, negotiating his way through the stampede of yelling children who were heading for
the food, he went over to a sensible-looking, middle-aged woman dressed in a brown suit and brogues.
“Apologies for the interruption,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the din, “but could you tell me how to get to Pottinger’s Wood?”
“What do you want Pottinger’s Wood for?” the woman replied animatedly in a matronly voice. “Has there been a crash? I hope not; it’s not a very accessible spot. I do hope no one has been hurt. Is it one of our planes or one of theirs? If it’s one of ours, they’ll never be able to recover it – the wood is so difficult to get to. If it’s one of theirs, I don’t suppose it matters really. It can just stay there. Although I suppose they might want it for scrap ... ”
As the woman rambled on, going off on one tangent after another, Barton realised he had chosen the wrong person to ask. She was one of those ‘stream of consciousness’ talkers who blurt out every thought as it enters their head. He waited for an opportunity to interrupt her politely and remind her of his question, but there were no pauses in her monologue. She had now got on to the history of Pottinger’s Wood and was talking about how it was mentioned in the Domesday Book. Short of telling her to shut up and get to the point, he did not see any alternative to waiting for her to finish her ramblings. He pressed his lips together in a smile and tried to feign a polite interest in what she was saying, but his thoughts began to wander off to the dark-haired girl. Now and then, he sneaked a glance at her; she was still on the stage, helping the conjuror to pack up his props into two large brown suitcases. Barton wondered if they were husband and wife and tried to see if she was wearing a wedding ring, but at that distance, he couldn’t tell.
He was suddenly aware that the woman in the brown suit had stopped talking. She was staring at him enquiringly.
“Pardon?” he said. “I’m having difficulty hearing. The children are making an awful noise.”
“Evacuees,” she replied. “No manners at all! They’re just wild. They’re all from London. Some of them have never even seen a cow before. Can you imagine? Of course, they’ll all be going away soon – because of the invasion threat, they’re being re-evacuated. Anyway, what I was saying before is: what kind of vehicle do you have? There’s a very narrow stone-walled bridge on the way, so if you’re driving anything big, you’ll have to take the long way round as you won’t be able to get it across.”
“I’ve got an Austin Eight,” Barton replied.
“That shouldn’t be a problem then. You need to go out of the village by the church road and take the first right. If you don’t, you’ll end up on the downs. Have you been on the downs near here? They’re lovely at this time of year. I used to go riding there, but that was a long time ago ... ” Barton tried to piece together the directions to Pottinger’s Wood from amongst the witterings and eventually felt he had enough information to find his way there.
One of the women in aprons who he had noticed through the hatch was going round amongst the adults, carrying a tray filled with mugs of tea. She was now coming over in their direction, and the woman in the brown suit broke off in the middle of her current anecdote to offer him some refreshment.
“Do have some tea, Mr…?”
Barton did not really want any, but it occurred to him that if he stayed on for a bit, he might get to meet the girl, so he introduced himself.
“Barton, Frank Barton. Yes, I’d love some,” he said, taking one of the mugs. “It’s kind of you to offer.”
“Not at all. Anything for our fly-boys! I take it from your cap that you are in the RAF? I’m Madge Talbot, by the way. My husband’s the postmaster in the village. Are you an officer?”
“Yes, a Pilot Officer.”
“So what exactly do you do?”
“I’m one of the few ... ” he began but was interrupted by an almighty crash behind him. He stopped abruptly and turned to see that the woman in the apron had dropped her tray of mugs. One of the evacuee children had been chasing another around the hall and had collided with her.
“Oh dear! These children!” Mrs. Talbot exclaimed. “Please calm down,” she shouted over to the evacuees at the table, “and try to make less noise”. The yelling and laughter subsided to a buzz. Mrs. Talbot, Barton and others nearby helped the woman from the kitchen pick up the scraps of broken crockery and put them on the tray. The woman then disappeared off to a cupboard for a mop, and Mrs. Talbot took up the conversation again.
“So, you’re one of ‘the Few’; what do you fly – Hurricanes or Spitfires? I don’t suppose it matters really. You pilots are all so brave, whatever you’re flying. I have a nephew in…”
Barton felt he should correct her. He had not said he was one of ‘the Few': he had intended to say he was one of the few technical officers involved in barrage balloon development, but the sentence had been cut short by the impact of the tray. However, as Madge Talbot rambled on about her nephew, Barton realized it was unlikely he would get a chance to set her right. Anyway, he probably shouldn’t be telling people about his work – ‘careless talk costs lives’ and all that. Not that his work was likely to affect the outcome of the war. As far as he could see, barrage balloons did as much harm as good, bringing down friend and foe alike.
He was woken from this train of thought by the appearance of the dark-haired girl at Mrs. Talbot’s side. She smiled at him and turned to Mrs. Talbot.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but Mr. Miller has to leave for his train now. He was wondering about his fee.”
“Of course, Professor Prospero’s fee! I have his cheque ready. I expect he’ll also need a lift to the station in this rain, and a hand with his cases. I’ll ask Mr Talbot to take him.” She began looking round the hall for her husband. “I think I see him in the kitchen. I wonder what he’s doing there.” She turned back towards them and grinned, first at the girl and then at Barton. “Now, I’m being very rude – I should have introduced you two. This is Miss Harrison, one of the stars of this afternoon’s entertainment. Grace, this is Pilot Officer Barton. He’s a fighter pilot.”
“Really? I’m so pleased to meet you,” the girl said, extending her hand to him. Her eyes seemed to grow larger and her smile widened. “We owe you pilots so much. You have a daunting task: the Germans seem to have endless numbers of aircraft. There are dog-fights going on over us all the time here in Bramlington.” She seemed genuinely appreciative.
Barton felt that this was the point at which he should put the record straight, but he could not bring himself to say the words. No woman had ever looked at him with such adulation, and he guessed that if he told her the truth about what he did, the admiring look would be replaced by one of disappointment. It was just as well he had his raincoat on so that no one could see the insignia on his uniform: the absence of pilot wings would have given the game away.
“Well, we try to do our bit,” he responded modestly.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to run off now,” Mrs Talbot said. “I need to arrange this lift for our magician friend. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Pilot Officer. Do pop in and see us next time you’re in Bramlington – we’re just down the road from the hall, above the post office.” And with that, she marched off to collar her husband, leaving Barton alone with Grace.
“So what brings you to the village?” she asked.
“RAF business,” he replied. “Very tedious.” He felt he should change the topic quickly. “I really enjoyed your show. Do you do this for a living?”
She laughed. “Good heavens, no! This is the first time I’ve ever been on the stage. I was just filling in for Mr. Miller’s assistant. There was a mix-up over the times and she had to go back to London early.”
“But you were so good! I thought you must be a professional. You have a natural talent for the stage.”
“I’m sure you’re just being polite, Mr. Barton. I expect I’d be petrified doing it on a real stage in front of a proper audience.”
She had a soft voice, with a slight trace of an Irish accent. He found it almost hypnotic list
ening to her.
“Have you always lived in Bramlington?”
“Only for the last fifteen years. We moved here when I was six. My father was the vicar for the parish until he retired last year.”
Barton did the maths: this meant she was twenty-one, just a couple of years younger than himself.
“Do I detect a hint of an Irish accent?”
“You have a very good ear, Mr. Barton. My mother was Irish. She died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She came from County Sligo, in the north-west part of the Republic. She used to take me over once or twice a year to visit my grandparents. I get my Irish accent from her.”
They continued speaking together for a quarter of an hour, during which time Barton learnt something of her life history and tastes. She had been studying English and History at Cambridge until last year but had had to leave to look after her father when he became ill. It was this illness that had forced him to give up his benefice, and as she was an only child, the task of caring for him fell to her.
Barton did his best to be witty and amusing and was pleased to discover she had a sense of humour. She also had an interest in music, played the piano, and spoke knowledgeably about literature without being snobby.
They had just started to compare their tastes in music, when he noticed through the windows of the hall a Fordson Sussex lorry in RAF blue drive slowly past and stop on the other side of the road. It had a wire cage on the back, and he identified it straightaway as the recovery truck belonging to his team. They must have recognized his car outside and stopped to find out what was happening. They would be sending someone into the hall to find him, someone who might well blurt out something about looking for barrage balloons.
Barton panicked. “Listen, that’s my crew out there. I’ll have to go,” he said hurriedly, passing her his mug, still half-full of tea. “Sorry to rush off. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. Hopefully we can meet up again some time.”