by Hall, Ian
Oh that made him squirm in discomfort under my firm grasp.
“We know about your little trip to Dunbar. Enjoy the seaside did we?”
“I…”
“Shut up!” I hissed, my face now very close to his. “My friends don’t want this getting to your little wife, and we certainly don’t want that information getting to your superiors here, do we?” He shook his head as much as my grip would allow. “Good man. Now when my colleagues contact you, they will use the words ‘Willie Shakespeare’ to introduce themselves. That way you’ll know they’re genuine. Okay?”
He nodded.
I let go his neck, and brushed the creases out of his jacket and collar. He flinched under every touch. “Now remember,” I leaned close as I rose from my chair. “You whisper a word to anyone… especially those non patriots, and my friends will know.”
I walked away, not looking back.
Biggles, the master-spy, had completed his first major operation. And it felt good.
After my University lecture, I walked home alone across The Meadows. The rain had stopped but the skies were still overcast with rain-heavy dark clouds.
I went to pass two German officers walking in the opposite direction, not an unusual occurrence; the lawns were a common walking area. They both carried lugers in black holsters.
“Halt.” One said, holding up his hand.
I stopped, somewhat stymied, I probably had a puzzled look on my face.
“Papiere!”
Knowing not to protest, I dutifully pulled out my identity card. He took one look, and handed it back to me. “Hav a niss day,” Laughing to his friend, they walked on, having proven their point, had their fun, whatever.
I kept a sneer from my face in case I was being watched, but grimaced inside. These interlopers were in my country, upsetting my way of life, and generally pissing me off. At that moment, as I strode along Jawbone Walk, I felt glad I was doing something to make a difference. That terrible day witnessing the victory parade on Princes Street seemed a lifetime away.
That evening, as we continued my German lessons, I opened up my mind with a clarity I had not felt in years.
I gave no thought to poor pathetic Sinclair and his poor pathetic life. I just soaked up the harsh-sounding words that spilled from Alice’s lips, happy that at last I was making a contribution.
Considering Ivanhoe’s intention to lie low, I did not expect a visit the next day.
How the Other Half Live
“Did you have a Hot Breakfast this morning?” The businessman looked right at me. Alice, at his request, had left the office, making herself busy outside. With Arthur Brooks gone, we had more than enough work to keep us gainfully employed.
“I had my porridge as usual.” I replied. Only seconds later did the HB significance of the question hit home.
The man gave me a warm smile. “We need your help.”
“Anything you need.”
“Not here.” He said, glancing at the door. “It’s far too sensitive.”
“Okay,”
“Tonight, around five, get on a number 11 tram, heading south out of town. Get off at the shops at Buckstone Terrace. If you stand uncontacted for more than an hour, it’s not going to happen. If you’re questioned, you’re waiting on a blind date.”
“Okay,” I said, piecing together the stages of his plan. “I’ve got it.” It was an easy enough instruction. The 11 tram passed along Princes Street, just a hundred yards from the office, and went right past our apartment. I’d often taken it home. I’d even fallen asleep on it once, and found myself at the terminus, way out at Swanston, woken by the conductor shaking my shoulder.
The man left my office as matter-of-factly as he’d arrived. Seconds later Alice regained her seat, no questions, just getting on with her job.
I walked over the Castle Esplanade with pride that day, flashed my credentials to the guards on the gate with confidence, walked up the cobbled wynd with long strides. I even looked down on Leutnant Möller’s stupid German head with a sense of inner peace.
Biggles the master-spy was operating right under his nose, and the stupid German twerp didn’t have a clue.
Well, I hoped he didn’t.
The number 11 tram that evening was busy; I had to stand in the aisle, holding onto the looped grip on the ceiling, until past Tollcross, then took a seat, the smooth leather warm from its previous backside. I found myself looking at the changes that had taken place as I travelled south out of town. The Germans were fond of their flag, and banners draped from many buildings as the tram clunked its way along the tracks. As I passed Morningside, I gave thought to poor Wilma, Professor Sinclair’s unfortunate concubine. I looked at the drab buildings, wondered what doctor she worked for, wondered what had happened since we’d shaken his world up.
The tram had almost emptied by the time we traveled up the hill of Comiston Road. When I readied myself to get off, a man stumbled and fell into me, almost sprawling over my lap. “Stay on.” he muttered, quickly unwinding my scarf from neck. As he pushed himself back to his feet, he slung my scarf round his neck. “Sorry mate!” He said loudly, then to my dismay walked up the tram’s aisle and got off at my intended stop. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as the tram pulled away. He’d crossed the pavement to the wall, and stood there, leaning against the rough stone, adjusting the hastily donned scarf. Only after I’d thought about it for a moment, did I realize he was the same build as myself, had a similar look, and wore the same grey overcoat.
My heart leapt. Had a German usurper just taken my place? Or had a member of our organization just obeyed his orders? I’d just had my precious scarf taken, and been afraid to make a scene, powerless to stop the daylight robbery.
When Ivanhoe got on at the next stop, I breathed a slight sigh of relief, hoping I hadn’t been conned by the enemy. He sat down near the front, paying me no attention. I followed suit, but I will admit to getting nervous as the tram neared the terminus. When we reached the last stop, I stood up; it seemed I had little choice.
As I walked past the conductor, he looked at me askew. “Where’s your ticket, sonny?”
“Eh…” I fished in my pocket, producing the short strip of paper. He took it from me and looked at it carefully.
“Thought so,” he said waving it in front of my face. “Nothing gets by me, son. You only paid to Buckstone. That’ll be an extra ha’penny.”
I sighed as the last passenger pushed behind me, then Ivanhoe. Reluctantly I nodded my guilt, and handed over the coin. The conductor even clicked his machine to the correct mechanical stops, and cranked me a new ticket for my extra halfpenny fare. “There you go, sonny.” He said with a proud smile; he’d done his duty for the Edinburgh Corporation Tramway company, made them an extra ha’penny of revenue.
When I at last set foot on the pavement, I found Ivanhoe had already walked away. Considering the absence of any other building, the Fairmile Tavern looked to be his destination. I followed in his footsteps, maybe a hundred feet behind. Walking back into the wind, the cold hit my adam’s apple, now scarfless. This spy lark sometimes wasn’t all the flashy adventures of Captain W.E. Johns’ characters; Biggles could have done with a flashy car right now, or at least a new scarf.
Considering the time, the tavern was quiet inside, just three men at one table, two at another. A roaring fire sat on the southern wall, its yellow flames roaring up the chimney. Ivanhoe stood at the bar, talking to the barmaid. I stood at the door for a second, unbuttoning my coat, then sauntered over. When she poured his pint, he crossed the room, and went through a door heading to the back of the bar.
“Yes, love?” she asked me as I approached.
“Pint o’ mild, please.”
As she pulled the draft, she eyed me up. I was in no mood to chat, so kept my mouth shut. She placed it on the bar. “Your mucker paid. He said to join him.”
At last, an instruction; I didn’t have to act by instinct.
The low-ceilinged back roo
m was small, filled with basic kitchen tables. Glowing red embers of a smaller fire burned in the corner. “That was an adventure.” I said, approaching Ivanhoe, who sat against the wall facing the door.
“We had to be sure. This is very sensitive.”
“Yeah, I lost a scarf.” I said sullenly, sitting down. “I hope it was worth it.”
“We don’t know. Since the Turnhouse bombings we’ve been super-vigilant.”
I sipped the ale, which if I were honest, was actually a good tasty pint. “What’s going on?”
He pulled a large brown envelope from inside his jacket. “I need you to look at these.” He handed me photographs one at a time. The first showed a grainy shot of two men talking. “Charlie Peacock,” I said, “I don’t know the other chap.”
The second also showed Charlie, who’d been in my freshman class, then dropped out after breaking his leg in a rugby accident.
In the third photograph, I recognized Charlie’s contact. It took me a second to remember the name. I looked away, racking my mind. “Jock something,” I said, biting my lip in frustration. “He’s from the west, not Glasgow though, somewhere on the coast. He’s a keen golfer.”
“John McIntyre,”
“That’s it, McIntyre.”
Ivanhoe took the photos, crossed to the fire, and carefully set the paper in the centre. He watched until they burned to ash, then gave the resultant mess a stir with a small poker. “So you know McIntyre well?”
“Not especially well, but we’ve chatted a couple of times.”
“He’ll know you?”
“Aye, absolutely.”
“And if you just turned up, out of the blue, he’d play golf with you?”
I considered it for a moment. “Oh, I suppose so.”
“Fine. This Friday night, you’ll take the Glasgow train. You’re going to Troon. We’ll arrange a meet, and a Saturday tee time.”
“Troon? What’s this all about?” I half expected to be fobbed off with the usual evasion, but it seemed I did need to know more.
“Well, we think Charles Peacock is talking to the enemy, and there’s a big show coming soon, we don’t want it buggered up.”
I could hardly believe it, and told Ivanhoe so. “Charlie’s dad’s in the Navy.”
“Nevertheless, there’s a leak somewhere, and we’re going to sort it all out.”
“So just tell him.”
“McIntyre?”
“Aye,”
“We can’t.” For the first time since I’d known him, Ivanhoe looked nervous. “He’s not exactly with our people.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, he’s in a different organization.”
“There’s more than one?” This was a revelation to me.
“There are a few, some official, some not so…” he bit his lip, pausing.
“And McIntyre is in one of the ‘not-so-official’ ones?”
“Correct.” Ivanhoe nodded. “And we need a familiar face to get the introduction.”
“Otherwise he’d run a mile.”
“Or he’d shoot first, ask questions later.”
I sat for a moment, hoping McIntyre’s memory was as good as mine; I didn’t fancy a bullet just for saying hello. “So what are my instructions?”
“Well, there’s not a lot set in stone right now; we’re going to play a lot of it by ear, improvise.”
I sat back on my chair, it creaked against my weight. “But I go to Troon for the weekend.”
“Yes, that’s set.” He dug in his jacket’s inner pocket, pulled out a smaller envelope. The fold was tucked inside, not sealed. “That’s for you. You’ll have to get your train tickets yourself. You’ll be staying at the Marine Hotel; that’s where everyone goes when they play golf there. We’ll contact you after you settle in.” He seemed to suddenly be uncomfortable in his seat. “There is one thing…”
“Yes?” I flipped open the envelope inside was a whole wad of cash. I looked up to see him staring at me, waiting on my full attention. “Yes?”
“Well, it is a little full of Germans, so just watch out. I’m quite sure the two of you will fit right in.”
Right. He’d been cagey ever since we’d sat down, and now he’d delivered a belter. “And who will I be staying with?”
“Oh, did I not tell you?” He gave a thin smile.
“No, you bloody well know you didn’t.”
“Ah, right. You will be travelling with your wife, Agnes Dewar.”
“Bugger off.” I laughed.
“No, you see, this operation is so important, arranged from so far up the tree, it’s actually got an official name.”
“Wait a moment.” I held a hand up as I slowly finished my pint. Then I stood, leaving the envelope of cash behind on the table, went back through to the bar, and bought two more. It wasn’t until I’d sat back down, and took a good skelp of the second that I beckoned him to carry on. “I think you should tell me about my wife?”
“Right. Probably forgot to tell you that too…”
I was growing frustrated, but could see the funny side. “Out with it.”
“Well, Alice and you will be traveling together as man and wife.” That sounded okay. “But you’ll be traveling under false papers. If this goes south, we don’t want push-back over here. You’ll be Derek and Agnes Dewar.”
“And why exactly?”
“Well, if you’re caught, you’ll probably be shot.”
Oh bloody hell. “What makes you think I can play golf?”
“We know everything.”
I suppose living next door to Bruntsfield Links made it a reasonable assumption. Taking a deep breath, I tapped the envelope. “How much is there?”
“About a hundred quid,”
“You’re bloody joking?”
“No, the Marine Hotel is an expensive place, that’s partly why you have to go incognito; James Baird couldn’t afford this.”
“And does Alice know?”
Ivanhoe shook his head. “You’ll brief her; she’s been prepared for stuff like this. On this outing, you’ll be encouraged to talk German openly. You’re collaborators, you own a business, make it up as you go along; you’re only going to be there one weekend, then disappear.”
“Aye, it’s easy for you.” I snapped a little. You’ve got most of it worked out, and what you haven’t you’ve delegated to me. What you don’t have to do is explain to my mother why her God-fearing son is going away with their lodger for the weekend.”
Shite.
Of Wedding Bells and Honeymoons
“Alice is going back to Galashiels for the weekend, Mum.” It was the story we’d decided on, but it didn’t matter how often I said it, her eyes still didn’t believe a single word.
“And you’re suddenly going to play golf with a man I’ve never heard of, and it has to be this weekend?”
“The tee-time’s booked for Saturday. We’re playing the open course!” I was almost at the end of my tether, and she hadn’t budged a morsel.
“It is a work thing, Mrs. Baird,” Alice said meekly. “If Arthur Brooks had still been alive, he’d have gone, but there’s no one else in the office that plays the game to the right level; James simply has to go.”
“Representing the newspaper, you say?” Mum stood in the doorway to the corridor, physically blocking my exit. It was Thursday night, almost ten o’clock.
“Mum, I have to get my case packed, I have to sleep, then I’ve got a half day at the office tomorrow.” I walked to her, but when I hugged, she stiffened and turned her head away, still not fully convinced. Heck, I wish we’d just told her the truth, we were going off together. Maybe it would have gone down easier.
To make matters worse, little minx Frances, usually so absent in my fencing with mother, sat at the table, grinning from ear to ear, loving every moment of both the bickering and my discomfort.
“And what are you using for money?”
“My good looks.” I joked, using Mu
m’s own quip back at her. “Seriously Mum, the newspaper gave me cash for expenses.”
I stepped back, disengaging my hug, allowing mum to look at me, then Alice. “And you’re going to Galashiels, you say?”
I’m looking forward to it,” she grinned eagerly. “I’ve not seen my Mum for a few weeks now.”
Nice move, play the guilt card.
“Well, you know, I won’t condone it under my own roof,” Mother wagged an accusatory finger at me. “And I won’t condone it anywhere else either.”
“Don’t condone what mum?” Frances asked cheekily. “What’s he been doing?”
“You mind your tongue, young lady.” Mum snapped. “Get off to your room; turn on the radio, listen to that Jerry muck; go on, play some of your noise.”
I think it was the first time she’d ever encouraged Frances’s musical tastes; usually she tried to disabuse Frances of listening to the radio stations offered by the new oppressors. Frances gave a mock sulk as she passed Mum’s side into the lobby, then turned in the half darkness and stuck her tongue out at me.
Five minutes later, I was packing my case; good suit for evening wear, plus fours for golf. Good shirt, best button collar, a couple of ties, nothing to give a hint of Edinburgh, the University, my accent would be enough of a giveaway, not that the Germans would know any different.
I left my door open on purpose. Sure enough, ten minutes later Mum stood in the doorway. “Do you need anything ironed?”
“I’ve got it, mum. Thanks.” She sat on the bed beside the case, dad’s case actually, before he’d started putting everything in a kit bag in 1936.
“That’s a sharp looking tie.”
“It’s quite a prestigious hotel.” I grimaced at the thought of it. “It’s going to be expensive.”
“How expensive?” She’d lost her bluster, and was calm again.
“Daphne at the desk said it was three pounds a night last year.”