Her Secret War

by Pam Lecky

  Sarah slept fitfully during the night, and dawn brought little consolation to her troubled mind. If she couldn’t find a solution, would Northcott carry out his threat to deport her? There was no one who could advise her on a method that might work, or indeed on her legal position. She could not risk putting anyone in danger by implicating them in the plot. Northcott didn’t strike her as a patient man, and lately he had shown little in the way of empathy for her situation. She suspected he was enjoying playing with all their lives, a puppet master in every sense.

  The only bit of good fortune was an empty parlour when she came down to breakfast. There was a roaring fire in the grate. It was the perfect chance to dispose of the tracing cloth, hidden in the sleeve of her coat upstairs. She dashed back up the stairs, retrieved it and hurried back down. But as she stood over the fire, ready to chuck the cloth in, Aunt Alice came in from the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, Sarah,’ her aunt said as she placed her tray down on the table. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Morning! Yes, thanks,’ Sarah answered, keeping the cloth behind her back. Alice looked surprised to see her standing at the fireplace, so Sarah grabbed the poker and prodded the fire before moving away and sitting down on the sheet to hide it. As soon as Aunt Alice went back into the kitchen, Sarah ran back upstairs with it. She couldn’t risk Martin or Uncle Tom appearing at any moment either, as they were bound to be more observant than her aunt. Muttering under her breath, she folded the sheet over several times, and pushed it into her pillowcase, hoping an opportunity to destroy it would materialise later. It was too creased now anyway to bring it back to Hursley Park. In frustration, she almost thumped the pillow. She was being thwarted at every turn. Was it a sign from on high to abandon the entire endeavour? She could be back in Ireland by tomorrow if she left now. Staring at her battered case jutting out over the top of the wardrobe, she was sorely tempted.

  The taste of failure lay bitter in her mouth as she sat over her breakfast a little while later. Absentmindedly, she twisted her toast into pieces, then looked down at the mess on her plate, bemused by her own actions.

  When Martin arrived downstairs, he glanced at her in surprise. ‘If you didn’t want that toast, you could have saved it for me. Waste not, want not.’

  Sarah forced herself to smile back. The last thing she needed was her cousin making a fuss. ‘I happen to like it this way,’ she said, popping some in her mouth.

  Martin looked at her askance, took a fresh piece from the plate his mother had just brought in, and started to spread margarine on it. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Will you be joining us in the pub Friday night?’ she asked.

  ‘Ruth mentioned something about it. Yes, I probably will. Straight after work?’

  ‘Yes. Gladys is on a mission. There is to be fun, and lots of it, and she’s not to hear any excuses. Don’t dare show up unless you are prepared to be chipper. I am, of course, quoting her.’

  ‘Lord, that girl is so empty-headed,’ he said with a quirk of his mouth. ‘Is she ever serious about anything?’

  ‘That’s harsh, Martin. Is it a crime to enjoy yourself? You’d understand if you knew some of her history. From what she has told me, she had a miserable childhood. Her family was extremely poor. Her dad was injured in the Great War – gassed, I think. Anyway, he couldn’t work and when she was old enough, she was pretty much told to leave and fend for herself.’

  ‘That’s as may be, and I’m sorry to hear it, but she’s a bad influence on Ruth. I wish they didn’t share a flat.’ A frown settled on his brow as he munched his toast. ‘Gladys is far too flighty for my liking.’

  ‘Oh, come on; Ruth is a bit ditzy too,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I am rather fond of Gladys. We have a lot in common.’

  Martin snorted. ‘I doubt it. You’re well-read and interested in the world around you. I can’t imagine Gladys ever reads a book or a newspaper or listens to the radio.’

  ‘You’re such a snob!’ she exclaimed. ‘And she does listen … if they play swing.’

  Martin rolled his eyes, drained his tea, and stood. ‘I rest my case. Are you ready to go? Work’s a-calling.’

  30

  5th November 1941, Hursley Park

  It was with a heavy heart that Sarah entered the Tracing Room half an hour later. She still hadn’t figured out an alternative to using a second tracing cloth. It was frustrating because she had hoped that method would work. Neither man would be happy with her lack of progress, and she could almost envisage Northcott’s reaction when she told him, which left her with a churning stomach. Would he give her any credit for at least trying? Her thoughts turned to Alfie and his fate. Her answer probably lay there. What she needed now was divine intervention. That, or an escape plan.

  Sarah greeted Miss Sugden and took the next drawing from the top of the stack on the supervisor’s desk. At once, she spotted Martin’s name in the title block. It looked like Uncle Tom’s wish was about to come true.

  Gladys was at the other table picking up a new tracing cloth. ‘What’s up with you? You do look glum,’ Gladys commented, nudging her with her elbow as she drew alongside. ‘Please cheer up before Friday evening’s outing. I need distraction; I want to have some fun. The foul weather and this place are getting to me.’

  ‘You got a rollicking, then?’

  Gladys had been hauled up before the Dragon the previous afternoon, as one of her tracings had not been accurate enough. Unfortunately, it was a regular occurrence for Gladys: concentration often eluded her.

  ‘I’ll say! Lord, being skinned alive would be more pleasant.’ Gladys gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘She’s put me on a warning.’

  ‘Oh no, Gladys! You must be more careful.’

  Gladys made a face. ‘Maybe I should look for a different job. London’s looking more and more inviting.’

  ‘Don’t you dare quit!’ Sarah hissed at her. ‘The place would not be the same without you.’

  Gladys grinned at her. ‘You old softie.’ She lowered her voice after flicking a glance at Miss Sugden. ‘Do you think it’s true what the lads say about the Dragon?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That it’s vinegar, not blood, that runs in her veins,’ Gladys said.

  Sarah chuckled. ‘Some kind of acid for certain. But she’s not that bad; I’ve met worse.’ Gladys looked at her askance. Sarah continued: ‘You’ve just been unlucky. By the way, do you happen to know where she lives?’

  Gladys’s brow puckered. ‘Southampton, I think. As far as I know, she didn’t move closer when we relocated here. I think she is from there originally and still lives with her mother. I’d say that’s a fun household. Can’t you imagine the larks they’d get up to?’

  Sarah spluttered. ‘You’re too cruel.’

  Gladys sniffed. ‘It’s what keeps me sane. Anyway, why do you want to know where she lives?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. I thought I spotted her there on Saturday when I was meeting Paul.’

  ‘Hmm, it was probably her. Mind you, it’s hard to envisage her anywhere but here behind that desk of hers, giving someone short shrift.’

  Sarah was sure there was far more to the lady. Particularly if she was Northcott’s accomplice. ‘Oh, you never know. She may lead a secret life we know nothing about.’

  Gladys snorted with laughter. ‘I doubt it!’

  Sarah stifled a yawn.

  Gladys tilted her head. ‘Are you still having those awful nightmares of yours, or are you dreaming of lover boy?’

  Sarah snorted. ‘As if!’

  Gladys tapped her chin with a finger. ‘Of course, the real question is which lad you dream about. Poor Rob. How can he compete with a dashing bloke in an RAF uniform?’

  ‘Shush, Gladys, I told you about Paul in confidence, and that’s all over, more’s the pity,’ Sarah said with a stern look. ‘Rob is a nice lad, but you know well I haven’t made up my mind about him. I am not ready to get too involved with anyone. I’m still finding my feet.’

  ‘You’
re dead right. Time enough to get tied to one man and the kitchen sink. I’ve certainly no intention of doing it yet. Far too much fun to be had these days. Think how much freer our lives are compared to our mothers.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Anyway, does Rob know he is only temporary? The poor bloke is keen on you. Always looking out for you in the canteen and asking if you are coming to lunch. Can’t remember the last time you had lunch with us girls.’

  Sarah pulled a face at her. ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Course I am!’ Gladys spluttered as the door opened and more of the girls entered.

  ‘And I had lunch with you yesterday,’ Sarah hissed back.

  Gladys bowed. ‘So you did. Awfully honoured, I felt, too. Uh-oh, here’s the Dragon. Heads down, pens at the ready.’

  The morning dragged. Sarah tried her best to work steadily on her drawing, but Martha in the row ahead was ill, constantly coughing and snuffling. Sarah didn’t normally find such things distracting, but today it was getting on her nerves. All of a sudden, there was an explosion of sneezing and Sarah looked up to see Martha rummaging frantically up her sleeve. Pulling a handkerchief out, Martha’s hand glanced off her inkwell and she jumped off her seat with a cry. Sarah soon saw why. A creeping stain of ink was devouring the girl’s tracing as gravity did its worst. Martha stood frozen by the side of the drawing board, watching in horror. Everyone in the room stopped working. Some shook their heads, while others looked more sympathetic. But for each of them, it was their worst nightmare.

  Miss Sugden rushed down the room, muttering under her breath, a cloth and sheets of blotting paper clutched in her hand. She righted the now-empty inkwell and stared at the mess on Martha’s desk. ‘Not again, Martha. How clumsy you are!’ The supervisor pulled off the drawing pins and picked up the tracing cloth, being careful to avoid spilling the ink onto the original drawing underneath. ‘Oh dear; it’s ruined. You will have to start again.’

  Martha stood by in misery, her lower lip trembling as she nodded. ‘So sorry, Miss Sugden. It was an accident, honest.’ Martha blew her nose, her eyes bright with tears.

  Miss Sugden’s expression softened. ‘Yes, I know. Here, leave this in the tray with the other spoilt tracings. It can be washed off at the end of the day. Take a fresh tracing cloth and start again.’ Shaking her head, she handed the blemished sheet to Martha. Her gaze swept around the room. ‘Ladies, return to your work, please.’

  Sarah’s heart began to race. She sucked in her breath as her heart lifted. That was it: that was how she would do it!

  Rob was waiting for her in the canteen. Since the Sunday in his flat, they had had lunch together nearly every day. In public, he seemed determined to keep up the deception that their relationship was a romantic one. Though she had no choice but to play along, she dreaded the meetings as Rob spouted more of his fascist nonsense in an attempt to bolster her confidence and urge her to action. It had the opposite effect, leaving her drained and fractious. Thankfully, in private, all pretence of romance had vanished now that his real purpose in pursuing her was out in the open. If anything, Sarah was relieved. Handsome as he was, his political beliefs and traitorous nature were abhorrent.

  From Rob’s expression as she approached the table, she knew he was eager for news of yesterday’s trial run. Sarah was composed as she sat down to join him. ‘Can you stay or are you heading back to the office now?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have long, but I was hanging on in the hopes of seeing you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘How did it go yesterday? Did you manage to get something interesting? Was it successful? Do you have it?’

  Sarah unwrapped her sandwich slowly. ‘Sorry, Rob. I’m afraid it didn’t go well. In fact, it didn’t work at all.’

  ‘What! Why?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake!’ she hissed at him. A couple of the lads at the next table looked over and smirked. One of them piped up: ‘Uh-oh, lover’s tiff! Poor old Rob!’

  Rob threw him a dirty look before sitting back with a frown. ‘Don’t mind those idiots. Tell me what went wrong? Why didn’t it work?’ He barely kept the exasperation from his voice.

  Sarah whispered: ‘The cloth was too thick, and the second sheet didn’t take an imprint. I couldn’t risk going harder with the pen, even if I’d known at the time it wasn’t working. If I had damaged the top sheet, there would have been questions asked. As it was, getting that sheet out without anyone noticing was almost impossible.’

  ‘How did you do it?’ he asked.

  ‘Shoved it up my sleeve. Not ideal, I can tell you, as I had to fold it over. Every time I bent my arm you could hear it move. I nearly got caught out by my cousin, of all people. I’ll have to find a safer and better way of removing one from the premises.’

  ‘For the next time? Ah! You have another idea. There’s something else you can try?’ he asked, all eagerness.

  Sarah glared at him. ‘Yes, but I would appreciate if you didn’t put so much pressure on me, Rob. Need I remind you I’m the one running the risk here, not you?’

  With a sigh, he leaned forward and reached for her hand. ‘Sorry. Yes, I know that. It’s just, well, I have promised someone that I can get … you know. I don’t want to let them down. He came to my flat the other night, demanding we get a move on. Doesn’t like being refused anything, you see. I’m almost sorry I gave my word. Sometimes the people you have to deal with are not those you’d choose.’

  Sarah almost spluttered: she couldn’t agree more. ‘Why should I care about this friend of yours? You shouldn’t have promised him anything. It’s no simple thing, what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘But the cause is the most important thing, Sarah.’

  ‘Perhaps, but there’s a strong possibility I may not be able to pull it off. Have you considered that?’

  Rob let go of her hand. ‘Yes, I know. Sorry. Where does that leave us, then?’

  ‘There is another option. It’s a bit mad, and highly risky, but just might work if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Great – what is it?’ Rob’s eyes were alight.

  ‘I’d rather not say now, Rob, but I’m going to attempt it tomorrow or Friday.’

  ‘How will I know if you are successful?’

  ‘You must be patient until lunch on Friday. I’ll see you then,’ she replied, finishing her tea and checking the time. ‘My thirty minutes are up. I have to get back. Won’t you wish me luck? God knows, I need it.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Sarah stood and looked down at him. ‘If it doesn’t work, you may see me being carted off and the Dragon breathing real fire for once.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. If anyone can do it, it’s you.’

  Was there a shade of uncertainty behind his words? She couldn’t blame him for doubting her. As Sarah walked away, she had never felt so weary.

  31

  6th November 1941, Hursley Park

  Sarah’s head was throbbing. The reality of what she was about to attempt brought her out in a cold sweat. There could be only one shot at this. Sarah took another look around the room before she picked up her pen and resumed her tracing. As if the universe were mocking her, her original drawing for the day was another one of Martin’s Mark VII schematics. It looked like the cockpit door mechanism Martin had mentioned to Uncle Tom. Her heart raced. If her cousin was to be believed, this design would enable the Spit to go even higher than before and give the RAF a huge advantage over Jerry. This was perfect: just what Northcott had described.

  For a brief moment, she sat back and admired Martin’s skill. The drawing was so intricate and yet had a lightness of touch, as if his pen had danced across the page. There was beauty and a kind of magic to it. For the first time she wondered how it felt to be the one creating something new. Was there a thrill when you saw the prototype, or finished plane, and knew you had contributed to its creation?

  It felt so wrong to blithely hand the drawing over to a traitor such as Rob and his vile conspirators.
In fact, it made her blood boil. What if Northcott failed to stop the transfer and the drawing ended up in Berlin as Rob hoped? If that happened, she might be complicit in the possible defeat of the Allies. However, now was not the time to contemplate such things. She was committed, even if it was giving her restless nights and many a nightmare. Her hand shook as she gripped the pen tighter. She wasn’t sure which emotion was driving her most: fear or hatred. Not for the first time, she cursed her luck in coming to the attention of Captain Northcott of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  She checked her watch. It was now ten past five. Timing was crucial if her plan was to work. The tracing was almost finished; one more flourish of her pen and the final sign-off were all that was required. Her hands were clammy as she completed the line, drawing her pen smoothly along the ruler. Under her brows, she surveyed the room. Everyone was working away in silence and Miss Sugden, glasses on the end of her nose, was inspecting someone’s tracing. Sarah filled in her name and the date below Martin’s. She had to implement her plan now or miss her chance for another day.

  But just then, Gladys’s head popped up and looked across at her, a wide grin on her face as her eyes flicked towards the clock on the wall and back again. Sarah smiled back in acknowledgement. Gladys – an inveterate clock-watcher – wiggled her brows at her before returning to her work. If only Gladys knew how much Sarah wished the day was over too. She could feel her blouse clinging to her back, damp beneath her cardigan, and it wasn’t the warmth of the room that was the cause.

  Sarah couldn’t stall any longer. With as little movement as possible, she eased out the drawing pins so they were barely holding the tracing cloth and drawing in place. Speed would be vital when the moment came. She reached towards the inkwell. It took some effort to control the shake in her hand. Her aim was to tip enough of the ink to make the tracing unusable, but not unreadable. When setting up earlier, she had positioned the drawing so that the title block was in the top right corner, close to the inkwell. With a jerk of her hand, as if she were reaching out for a pen, her fingers brushed against the inkpot. It tipped slightly, and an ugly, black pool of ink landed on the title block. Perfect. The stain was small but sufficient for her purposes. Sarah grabbed the inkwell and righted it, cursing under her breath.