by Pam Lecky
He nodded vigorously. ‘I can understand that completely. If it all became common knowledge, I think it would push the Irish towards the German cause.’
‘You could be right. My father was a staunch republican. He believed that an alliance with Germany was the best option for the country, both economically and politically.’
‘And what do you believe?’ Rob asked, almost in a whisper.
‘I think he may have had the right of it.’ God forgive me! Sarah cast her eyes down before taking a large swallow of gin. If ever there was a time for Dutch courage, this was it.
‘Well, I’ve read a lot, Sarah, and not just the British press, which you might not realise is heavily censored. The truth about the Nazis is different to what we are being fed here. My God, that country is a marvel. They have rebuilt their economy from the ruins of the Great War. Look what they have achieved in such a short time.’
‘Yes, but what about the rumours about what they are doing to the Jews?’ She couldn’t help herself. The nonsense he was prepared to spout sickened her.
‘All lies, Sarah. The Allies are carrying out a propaganda war because it is the only way they can justify keeping this ridiculous war going. And the Jews are funding it all.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? You have been a direct victim. You lost your sister, your father, and your home in an instant. Don’t you want revenge?’
A shiver ran through Sarah’s body as she thought of her little sister. That much was true; she did want revenge, but the nature of it was not what Rob McArthur envisaged. ‘Yes, but what can I do?’ she asked at last, casting him her best doleful gaze.
Rob reached across and caressed her hand where it lay on the table. ‘There’s plenty you and I can do, Sarah. Finish up your drink and we can go back to my flat.’ He looked around the pub. ‘It’s not safe to talk here.’
24
26th October 1941, Winchester
Sarah followed Rob up the dingy stairway to his first-floor flat and waited as he rooted in his overcoat pocket for his keys. A squeal of girlish laughter came from the flat down the hallway. Rob turned to Sarah and threw his eyes to heaven. Two other doorways led off the landing and another flight of stairs led upwards into the gloom: presumably to poor Alfie’s attic.
‘I can show you the studio, if you like,’ Rob said, following her gaze. ‘There’s a lot of Alfie’s stuff still up there. It might be your last chance to see his work. I imagine Mr Atkins will be along any day now to remove it.’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said, happy to put off the conversation she was now dreading.
Rob put his keys back in his pocket and led the way up the narrow staircase. There was only one door off the tiny landing at the top, and it stood ajar. Rob waved her through. It was a much brighter space than Sarah had expected. Ancient roof beams formed an apex above her head, and two large roof lights let the daylight flood in to the area. Alfie’s easel, with a half-completed canvas, stood in the centre. Beside it, a large table was covered in brushes, paint, and pieces of rag. A glass jar held a further array of clean brushes and scattered all about were paintings in various stages of completion. Some leaned against the walls, others were heaped up in piles.
‘Gosh, he was prolific,’ Sarah remarked, picking up a painting from the floor.
Rob walked further down the room to where an ancient gramophone and a stack of records teetered on a three-legged table. ‘I might ask Atkins if I can have this blasted thing, for old times’ sake,’ Rob said.
‘I thought you hated the racket it made.’
‘I did, but I guess I’m a sentimental fool when it comes down to it. Anyway, it was more what Alfie played on it that I objected to.’ Rob picked up the top record and cleaned off the dust with his sleeve. ‘It’s all classical stuff; not really my thing.’
Sarah doubted Rob was ever sentimental, but she smiled back at him. As a shiver-inducing draught swept through the attic, Sarah could see the old roof felt lifting in the wind. ‘How did he work up here in the wintertime? It’s absolutely freezing.’
‘There are a few slates missing, but I don’t think he noticed,’ Rob grimaced. ‘A strange kid at the best of times.’
‘And what’s through there?’ Sarah asked, pointing to a door at the end of the room.
Rob swung around. ‘A sheer drop if you’re not careful. It’s locked these days. They used to use this as a storeroom for the shop below. That door leads to a metal staircase which takes you down to the yard at the rear. The ladder is lethal, though; it’s half rusted through.’
Sarah stooped down and picked up another canvas, showing a riverside scene. ‘This must be along the Itchen somewhere,’ she said, showing it to Rob.
He nodded. ‘Could be.’ Rob looked about the room. ‘I’m going to miss him.’
‘Let’s go, Rob. It’s too sad up here,’ she said, looking down at another half-finished landscape. It was the church in Hursley.
Rob gave the key another twist and the door to his flat opened. He stood back and gestured for her to precede him. ‘It’s not much,’ he said with a quirk of his eyebrow, ‘but it’s home sweet home.’
Sarah gazed around the tiny flat. It was basic but clean, though the threadbare condition of the rug on the floor hinted at better days, and the wallpaper bore the marks of a multitude of tenants over many years. An open door led off to another room, which she imagined was Rob’s bedroom. Against the back wall was a rickety-looking sink, a gas ring and a couple of cupboards. The rest of the furniture comprised two armchairs, a small table and some shelves stacked with books and newspapers. As she took it all in, she realised that there was something peculiar about the place. There were no photographs or personal things lying about. In fact, it was the kind of place you could quit at speed and leave no trace of who you were. With a start, she realised she was thinking like a spy already.
Nerves jangling, Sarah went to the window and peered down into the street, while Rob bent down to light the paraffin heater. With relief, she noted that there was no sign of the couple from the bar. The man had looked up as they had left and had passed some remark to his companion. During the short walk to Rob’s flat, Sarah had had to restrain the urge to keep looking back to check if they were being followed.
‘I’d keep your coat on for now,’ Rob said. ‘The room will take a minute or two to warm up.’ He reached over and pulled her towards him. ‘Of course, there are other ways to keep warm,’ he said, gazing down at her.
Doing her best to ignore the lurch of her stomach, she smiled. ‘Now, now; I’m not that kind of girl, Rob.’
To her amazement, Rob released her, and coloured from the neck up. ‘How about a cuppa?’ he asked, his voice wobbling.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
Rob crossed over to the small kitchen area and pottered about making the tea, his back to her. A convenient activity, she thought, to hide his obvious embarrassment.
Sarah went over to the shelves, pretending to scan them. What was that all about? Sometimes he came across as gauche; not the near-lothario Gladys made him out to be. But then she spotted something that struck her as incongruous. There were several books in foreign languages, stacked one on top of the other. One stood out. The title on the spine was in that strange font the Germans used. You saw it all the time in the newsreels. Sarah racked her brain: it was called ‘Fraktur’, wasn’t it? She pulled the book out and flicked through the pages. She was sure it was German. Still, he had admitted he was something of a language expert. Was it suspicious that he had several books in German, or was it perfectly innocent?
‘Do you read German?’ Rob asked, almost making her jump.
‘No, I’m afraid not. The nuns at school didn’t think it a necessity,’ she said, pushing the book back into its place.
Sarah sat down beside the heater and watched him. Soon the paraffin fumes were more noticeable in the room. They reminded her of home, and her grumblings about being sent by her mother to
fetch fuel to keep their heater filled. They were horrible, smelly things, those old stoves, but you couldn’t deny it was good to warm your hands and feet before one on a cold evening. Unfortunately, if Da was home, he always monopolised it. Thankfully, his love of drink and his mates kept him down the pub most evenings. A blessing in more ways than one. With a sigh, she dismissed the image of her father; he was the last person she wanted to think about.
‘Darn it!’ Rob exclaimed, turning towards her. ‘I’ve no milk. I’ll just run next door and borrow some from the girls.’
‘Sure.’
As soon as he was out the door, Sarah jumped up and searched through the shelves again. Nothing else stood out. Dare she check out the bedroom? Quickly, she went to the door of the flat and listened. There was a distant rumble of voices but no footsteps. Sarah dashed to Rob’s bedroom and looked around the door. A quick sweep of the room revealed a single bed, a nightstand and a chest of drawers on top of which lay more books. Sarah scooted over and scanned them. Several were about Irish history. Great hefty tomes they were, too. He probably knew more about the subject than she did if he had read all of these. No doubt it had been research to help him gain her trust. She took one last look around the room. Again, there was a strange absence of personal effects. She didn’t dare stay any longer. Heart pounding, she leaped across the outer room, sitting back down just as Rob came in the door. He held a small jug aloft. ‘Success.’
‘That was lucky,’ she replied.
‘Yes, and I’ve no qualms borrowing from them. They are always at the door looking for something from me.’ He pulled out some cups from the cupboard.
Sarah dreaded the conversation to come and hurriedly sought a safe topic. ‘Do you think Mr Atkins will let out the attic?’
Rob gave a shrug. ‘It would need a great deal of work to rent it out as a flat. He might just let it out as a studio to another artist. Hopefully one not so fond of loud music as Alfie. It will boil down to money and I don’t think Atkins is flush with it. The gallery doesn’t make much. He’s a music teacher – piano, I believe.’
‘Well, he hasn’t spent much on this place, by the look of it. Gosh, sorry, Rob, that’s a bit rude of me!’
Rob chuckled. ‘No offence taken. I agree wholeheartedly. But that’s why it’s so cheap.’ Rob turned back to the now boiling kettle. He sighed. ‘Poor Alfie; still can’t believe he’s gone. And such a horrible way to die. I only hope it was instant.’
‘I know. It would be awful to think he had been lying injured and could have been saved if he’d been found sooner.’
Rob paused with the kettle in his hand. ‘Lord! What an awful thought.’ He returned to his task.
‘But doesn’t it seem odd to you?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Well, the driver of the car must have known they had hit something. Wouldn’t they stop and check?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they only clipped Alfie’s bike, or they passed him at speed and he just lost his balance. He probably had art stuff on the back carrier – that would have made him unstable. Could have hit his head when he fell.’
‘Yes, of course, it must have been something like that.’
If only she could be sure Northcott hadn’t done it. But how was she to find out? Another part of her didn’t want it confirmed.
Sarah watched as Rob stirred the milk into the tea. ‘How domesticated you are!’ she said, hoping to lighten the mood.
‘Needs must. I’m almost a year living away from home. My mother would be proud,’ he quipped. ‘So, what do you make of chez Rob?’ he asked.
‘It’s perfect for you, isn’t it?’
‘Without doubt; otherwise I would have had to share some place with a group of lads, and I didn’t fancy that. I prefer my own company after years of having to share with my brother. My only gripe is sharing the bathroom with the two other flats.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There are girls in both, God help me, and they hog the bathroom. The things I find in there sometimes!’
Sarah laughed. ‘Things to make you blush?’
Rob nodded. ‘They just laugh when I complain. Still, I hope to find somewhere better in the near future.’
I bet you do, with your ill-gotten gains! Sarah forced herself to smile up at him, taking the cup. ‘It must be nice to have your own place. Someday, I’d like to have my own flat, but I couldn’t afford it at the moment. I am doing my best to put a little by every week, but it’s hard.’
‘Good for you. I’m doing the same. But would you not be lonely on your own?’ he asked, sitting down on the chair opposite. ‘You’re used to living with family.’
‘True, but it’s academic until the war is over. I can’t see my circumstances changing much. If my cousin Judith should return from London, it would be a tight squeeze at the house in Hursley. That would be my cue to move on. Though I’d be sad to leave the Lambes and the job.’
‘Where does your cousin work?’
‘The Home Office, I believe, but it’s all very hush-hush. I haven’t met her yet, but I think she is due to visit soon.’
Rob frowned over his cup. ‘What does she do there?’
‘I’m not sure; a secretary, as far as I understand.’
For a moment or two, he stared down into his tea, as if trying to come to a decision. Sarah’s heart thumped, and a shiver ran down her spine. Her instincts were screaming at her to run out the door before they both committed to something terrifyingly dangerous.
When Rob looked up, his expression was serious. ‘About what we were talking of earlier in the pub, Sarah: I’m not sure you realise how lucky you are.’
‘How so?’
‘Your job puts you in a unique position to do a lot of good.’
‘What do you mean? A unique position for what exactly?’ she asked. He cleared his throat and she realised he was nervous. He knows what he is about to propose to me is treason. But grasping that fact didn’t comfort her.
‘You have access to information – Spitfire plans – that the Germans would find especially useful. If they saw the plans, they could take advantage of any design weaknesses or strengths. Wouldn’t it be easy enough for you to take some drawings out of Hursley?’
‘Well, no, I doubt it would. The originals are kept in a safe. Once we do our tracings, the original drawings go straight back to the Drawing Office at the end of each day. They’d know if one was missing.’
‘Couldn’t you copy one then? Do a second tracing perhaps?’ Rob asked, his voice low.
Sarah took her time in answering. She still didn’t want to appear too keen, or suggest that it was something she had given thought to – even though, most nights, she thought about little else. ‘No, that would not be possible without the drawings, and we have to hand those back as soon as we are finished.’
‘There must be some way, Sarah.’
She made a show of mulling over it. Eventually she said: ‘I suppose it might be done. I’ll have to think about it. But don’t get your hopes too high. It may not be possible, and it certainly won’t be easy. I can hardly tell the Dragon I’m working late on some plans for the Germans.’
Rob smarted. ‘No, of course not; but you’re a clever girl, I’m sure you could come up with a way. And just think – not only would you be helping the Germans, but you would earn enough money to start afresh. I know people who are willing to pay well for those kinds of secrets. Very well indeed.’
Sarah’s hands were shaking, so she gripped the cup tightly. ‘Really?’
‘And, if it helped Jerry, it would be fitting revenge on Churchill and his ilk for what they have done to your family, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes … but are you positive about that British plot? If you’re wrong—’
‘I have it on the best authority, Sarah. It was a deliberate ploy to force the hand of the Irish government. The Germans deny any involvement in that incident and I believe them. It makes perfect sense. The last thing the Germans want is the Irish to side with the Allies, which
rather gives credence to it being a British plot.’
‘When you put it like that … But, Rob, I have no idea how to go about this kind of thing. What if I were caught? I’d be in serious trouble. I could go to jail – or worse.’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t be caught, because we will plan it all very carefully. And once I have the drawings, I know who to pass them on to. My friend will ensure they go to the right people in Berlin.’
Sarah put the cup down. ‘Who are these people, Rob?’
‘Don’t worry about who they are. Let’s just say they are Brits like me who believe this war is misguided. I have one friend in particular who has German ancestry, and over the last few months he has been telling me so much about the Nazis. You can’t believe all the propaganda from the British government.’
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘I’d rather not say. He wouldn’t like it. To be honest, he’s a ruthless man: doesn’t trust anyone; but then I suppose he has a lot to lose. Even for a German, he’s rather zealous. But he assures me it’s only a matter of time before the Germans are here. Hitler will soon turn his attention back to the Western Front once the Russians are defeated. When that time comes, some of us will be eager to help them. Of course, as fascists, we must remain secret. But trust me, we have cells all over the country, ready to rise up and help make Britain great again.’
‘I’m not sure, Rob. I need to think about this,’ she replied. ‘It’s very risky.’
‘That’s all right; I know it’s a big decision. But let me assure you, I’m willing to help in any way I can. I would do it myself if I could, but I could never access those plans without raising suspicion, whereas you handle them every day. So, you see, it has to be you.’ Sarah nodded slowly. ‘However, I must warn you to be careful. Don’t trust anyone – and do not discuss this with anyone else, in particular those girls you are friendly with. They are shocking gossips.’