The Secret Letter

by Debbie Rix

  ‘Oh Daddy,’ she said, flinging her arms around his neck as soon as he climbed out of the car. ‘It’s lovely to see you. I’m so glad you managed to get enough petrol.’

  ‘Yes. It was a bit of a struggle, but we got there in the end. Now I don’t want to be too long – we must get home before dark, and it’s a long drive back across the Pennines.’

  ‘Yes Daddy. You do worry so.’ She took his arm as they walked towards the house. ‘I promised Joy we’d give her a lift – I hope that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘And what about Helen?’

  ‘No. Her mother came for her yesterday.’

  While her father stowed Imogen’s belongings in the boot of the car, she said her farewell to Mr and Mrs Latimer.

  ‘I do so hope you have a good Christmas,’ she said, removing a small neat parcel from her coat pocket, and handing it to Mrs Latimer. ‘I bought you a little something.’

  ‘Oh… you didn’t have to do that. I’ll save it for Christmas Day, shall I?’ But noticing the slight disappointment on Imogen’s face, Mr Latimer nudged his wife.

  ‘Oh open it now, lass.’

  Inside the pale pink wrapping paper nestled a small blue bottle with a crystal stopper.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s called “Soir de Paris”’.

  Mrs Latimer removed the stopper and dabbed a little of the perfume on her wrists. ‘Lovely,’ she murmured as she brought her wrist to her nose. ‘Soir de Paris – how romantic it sounds.’ Her eyes welled up with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Imogen, ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Well,’ said her father, interrupting, ‘we ought to be getting off. Thank you so much both of you for looking after Imogen.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Latimer, ‘she’s no trouble.’

  Joy was in high spirits as she climbed into the car.

  ‘I am so relieved to be getting away from that terrible woman,’ she said, sinking into the leather seats.

  ‘Poor Joy,’ Imogen explained to her father, ‘is with the most awful family. The mother does nothing but weep over her four older boys who are all fighting in the war and ignores her four younger children; and there’s never enough to eat – is there Joy?’

  Joy nodded her head, mournfully.

  ‘I do wish we could help her move somewhere else,’ Imogen pleaded.

  ‘Well there’s nothing we can do about it now,’ said her father from the front seat. ‘Settle back girls and enjoy the drive.’

  Back in Newcastle, the household was busy with Christmas preparations. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted out of the kitchen, as Imogen’s father, Joe, put her bags down in the hall. Her mother emerged wearing an apron, her hands covered with flour.

  ‘Darling girl,’ she said, hugging Imogen to her. ‘I have missed you so.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you too,’ said Imogen, weeping slightly with relief at finally being home. ‘Something smells lovely,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’m just making a batch of mince pies – in case people drop by unexpectedly. They’re threatening us with food rationing in the New Year, so I thought we’d make the best of it while we still can.’

  ‘Have you done the tree yet?’ asked Imogen, peering around the hall.

  ‘No,’ her mother said firmly. ‘I told Daddy we must wait for you to come home, as I know how much you love decorating it. It’s outside in a pot in the back garden.’

  In the days leading up to Christmas, Imogen relaxed and spent much of her time helping her mother in the kitchen. Rose taught her to make pastry and they assembled a game pie together. Wrapped in greaseproof paper, it was stored on a marble slab in the larder, next the large goose Rose had bought for Christmas Day. In spite of the war, most people were determined to enjoy the holiday, and Rose and Joe had invited family to share the celebrations with them. Two of Rose’s brothers were due to arrive on Christmas Eve, bringing their combined brood of half a dozen children. Imogen, as an only child, adored her cousins and found herself counting the days until the celebrations could begin.

  ‘We shall go shopping,’ Rose said to Imogen one morning over breakfast. ‘You’ve grown such a lot and nothing seems to fit you any more. Fenwicks, I think.’

  ‘Really Mummy – are you sure? That would be lovely.’

  They chose a new skirt, two new shirts, some underwear, and a dark green woollen dress. It was quite unlike anything Imogen had ever owned before – figure-hugging and grown up, at least to Imogen’s eyes.

  ‘You can wear that at the McMasters’ do,’ said Rose, as the shop assistant wrapped the dress.

  ‘Are they having a do?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘Yes – the day before Christmas Eve. I expect all the boys will be there.’

  Rose turned to look up at her daughter as a faint blush spread across Imogen’s pale face.

  Imogen hadn’t thought much about Freddie since being sent to Keswick. Convinced he would find her childish in comparison to the girls at university, she had dismissed him from her mind and had instead occupied herself working hard at her lessons – and, of course, going out for the occasional date with Dougie. But standing next to her mother in Fenwick’s, Imogen realised the lure of handsome, debonair Freddie was as strong as ever.

  On the evening of the party, snow was forecast and Imogen’s bedroom – in spite of the fire her father had lit in her room – was chilly. Imogen stood back to admire herself in the dark oak cheval mirror. The new green dress was perfect, she decided, but her shoulder-length hair hung childishly on either side of her heart-shaped face. Recalling a photograph of Rita Hayworth she had seen in a movie magazine with her hair piled fetchingly on top of her head, Imogen sat at her dressing table and pinned up her own hair. Finally applying a slick of red lipstick, she tried to imagine what Freddie would think when he saw her. Would he be entranced by her? Perhaps they would spend the evening talking together, reminiscing about their tennis days – and the following day he might even invite her to go for a romantic Christmas Eve walk…

  ‘Imogen,’ her mother called up the stairs, interrupting her romantic fantasies. ‘It’s time to go.’

  ‘Coming,’ she shouted. With one last look in the mirror, she swept down the stairs, her green eyes sparkling, her neat figure shown off to perfection in the new emerald-green dress.

  The party was in full swing when the Mitchells arrived. Leaving their coats on a long upright sofa in the hall, they found the drawing-room filled with local people drinking sherry, the air thick with smoke from the men’s cigarettes and cigars. While her parents were being greeted by their friends, Imogen looked around hopefully for Freddie. Nursing a small glass of Dubonnet and soda – the only drink her father allowed – she was delighted when Philip McMasters, Freddie’s elder brother, tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Hello little one,’ he said. Imogen was not sure she liked this term of affection. She realised he meant well, but it made her feel like a child and she had tried so hard that evening, with her new figure-hugging dress, to look as mature and elegant as possible.

  ‘Hello Philip. How are you? You look marvellous in your uniform.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said smugly. ‘You look rather good yourself… have you grown?’

  Imogen blushed – flattered and irritated in equal measure.

  ‘Are you home on leave?’ she asked, trying desperately to make adult conversation.

  ‘Yes – just for a couple of days… got a new posting in the New Year.’

  ‘Anywhere interesting?’

  ‘Not allowed to say.’

  Imogen fingered her glass, wondering what to say next.

  ‘Is Freddie here?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s gone to some university squadron do tonight.’

  Noting the disappointment on Imogen’s face, he added: ‘Were you hoping to see him…?’

  ‘Oh… you know,’ she said as casually as possible. ‘We’ve just not seen
one another for a while. I was hoping he might give me a game of tennis.’ In light of the fact that snow was forecast, this last remark was clearly absurd.

  ‘Ah yes – your tennis.’ Philip smiled indulgently. ‘Quite legendary, I gather. He admitted he’d been absolutely trounced by you.’

  ‘Really? Did he? I wouldn’t say that, but I was a little better than him, it’s true.’

  ‘Well good for you,’ said Philip, laughing. ‘I’ll tell him you missed him, shall I?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Imogen said, as casually as she could. ‘I’ll see him next time, I expect.’

  That night, as she lay in bed dressed in her girlish pyjamas, she thought longingly of Freddie McMasters and of his floppy dark hair and clear grey eyes.

  Back at school after the holidays, she told Joy about her unrequited love.

  ‘Oh Joy… it’s just so unfair. He’s quite the most handsome man I’ve ever known. But I never see him. I hate this war.’

  ‘Oh Ginny, you poor thing. He does sound dreamy. But he’s quite a lot older than you, isn’t he? Don’t you think, that… perhaps, he might already have a girlfriend more his own age?’

  ‘Oh don’t say that!’ Imogen snapped. ‘He can’t have anyone else. I thought he really liked me – but perhaps I’ve just been fooling myself all this time.’

  Imogen was not somebody to wallow in despair. Her nagging anxiety that Freddie might already have a more suitable girlfriend forced her to abandon any hopes she might have once had for their future relationship. Over the next few months, as the days grew longer and the cold days of winter turned to spring, she began to see more of Dougie. They walked in the hills together after school, lying on the grass amongst the bracken.

  ‘It’s so peaceful up here… It’s like we’re the only boy and girl left on earth – like Adam and Eve,’ Imogen suggested, innocently, one afternoon.

  Dougie, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms, rolled over to face her.

  ‘Adam and Eve, eh? So are you going to tempt me then?’

  Imogen sat up abruptly, crimson with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean that. Oh… you know what I meant. It’s just so tranquil and quiet – one can’t imagine all those boys, like you, doing battle with Hitler and his horrible, horrible army over in France.’

  Tears came into her eyes.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, gently, reaching up and rubbing her back. ‘Don’t think about it, lass. I don’t. There’s nothing we can do anyway. Lie down.’

  She lay, feeling the sun warming her body… and Dougie leant over and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. It was the first time she had ever been kissed, and she was amazed at the softness of his lips.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said, stroking his cheek.

  ‘I’ll do it again then, shall I?’

  As he kissed her she forgot about Freddie, about missing home, about the war itself. She was just a girl lying in the arms of a boy in the spring sunshine.

  Chapter Eight

  Färsehof Farm

  May 1940

  Pieter came in from the yard, leaving his muddy boots outside on the step.

  ‘Käthe,’ he called out. ‘Is breakfast ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ she shouted down from their bedroom, ‘I’m just coming.’

  As he waited for his wife, he sat at the table, twiddling the dials of the Volksemfänger radio that sat on the kitchen dresser. In order to encourage ordinary Germans to listen to National Socialist propaganda put out by Goebbels from Berlin, millions of these inexpensive radios had been produced by the State. Listening to foreign news stations was illegal, punishable with a year or more in a concentration camp. In an attempt to prevent foreign news infiltrating the airwaves, the authorities had destroyed radio transmitters across Europe. But the BBC had a German language service which could be heard all over Europe.

  As Magda came down the stairs for breakfast, she heard the disparate staccato snippets of radio programmes as her father turned the dial – classical music, a woman’s voice reciting poetry, curious whistling sounds, all edged falteringly into the room, until they heard an English voice saying in German:

  In London this morning, it was announced that the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain has stepped aside in favour of the First Lord of the Admiralty – Sir Winston Churchill…

  The signal dipped. Standing in the doorway, Magda watched as her father turned up the volume.

  First news of the German invasion into the Low Countries reached London at dawn…

  ‘Papa… what are you listening to?’

  Pieter held his fingers to his lips. ‘Ssshh… come here… the signal’s so bad, I can hardly hear it.’

  Magda listened intently.

  In a proclamation issued to the German armies in the West, Hitler said: ‘The hour has come for the decisive battle for the future of the German nation’. Reports from Holland said German troops crossed the border during the night. The Dutch destroyed bridges over the rivers Maas and IJssel to prevent the German advance.

  Pieter looked at his daughter, his eyes wide. ‘Well? What did they say?’

  ‘It’s something about our troops being in Holland… The Dutch have blown up the bridges to try to stop them.’

  Pieter turned the dial to a German station. The familiar hectoring voice of the Führer rang out:

  The battle beginning today will decide the fate of the German nation for the next thousand years.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Käthe, coming downstairs.

  ‘We’re trying to listen to the news,’ said Magda.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ Käthe eyes were fearful.

  ‘Our troops have moved into Holland,’ said Magda.

  Käthe walked across to the stove and riddled the fire. She threw on the last of the coal from the bucket, and filled the kettle from the rattling tap.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,’ she said, putting the kettle on the stove and taking a basket of eggs from the windowsill. ‘How do you want your eggs?’

  There was a knock at the door and Pieter swiftly turned off the radio.

  ‘Open it,’ he whispered to Magda.

  Standing outside in his Hitler Youth uniform, was Otto.

  ‘Hello,’ Magda said, as casually as she could, wondering how long he’d been standing there.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Magda, stepping aside.

  He filled the kitchen with his presence. In his khaki-coloured shirt, always immaculately ironed, and dark tie, his blond hair swept away from his high tanned forehead, he looked like a poster boy for the Youth.

  ‘I thought I heard the Führer’s voice,’ he said, peering around the room.

  Magda blushed. ‘Oh yes. We were just listening to him on the radio.’

  Otto looked from Magda to her father. ‘What was he saying?’

  Magda, anxious to prevent Pieter revealing something that could only have come from a foreign news organisation, quickly interjected.

  ‘Just that the battle has started. The Führer said it would decide our fate for the next thousand years… It was very stirring, wasn’t it Papa?’

  ‘Well…’ said Pieter, standing up. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I have work to do.’

  As he got to the door, he turned and looked pointedly at the young man. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, raising his arm in the familiar salute.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ said Otto, crisply, snapping his heels together, before pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table.

  Käthe, standing behind the young man, looked across at Magda and raised her eyebrows. ‘Why is he here?’ she mouthed silently.

  Magda shook her head discreetly.

  ‘Would you like breakfast, Otto?’ Käthe asked politely.

  ‘Thank you – yes,’ he said. Magda’s heart sank, but she got up and laid the table for three.

  ‘Are you on your way to school?’ she asked him, as she set out a plate and cup for him. ‘You’r
e a bit out of the way here, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was coming this way – I just thought I’d drop in.’ He smiled at her, but his eyes were cold. ‘I thought we could go to school together.’

  Their breakfast finished, Magda went upstairs to her room and brushed her hair. Her father was out in the yard, pushing the cows into the milking parlour. He looked agitated, Magda thought. He hadn’t even had breakfast. When she came back down into the kitchen, Otto stood ready to escort her. As they walked down the farm track towards the road, Magda turned to wave and noticed her parents talking intensely to one another.

  ‘Why did you really come here today?’ she asked Otto.

  ‘That’s an odd question,’ he replied. ‘I thought you liked me… I thought we were friends.’

  ‘Of course I like you,’ Magda said hurriedly, anxious not to upset him. ‘Although I think Erika likes you more.’ She attempted a laugh, trying to diffuse the air of tension between them.

  ‘Huh,’ he said dismissively, ‘Erika is an idiot…’

  ‘She’s team leader,’ said Magda defensively.

  ‘Only because she sucks up to Fräulein Müller. You should be leader, really.’ He glanced shyly down at her, admiring her gold hair, her clear skin. He was sincere, she realised.

  ‘Oh no!’ Magda replied, modestly. ‘I’m really not….’ She cast around for a suitable phrase. ‘Not the right sort of person.’

  ‘Why not?’ Otto asked. ‘You’re intelligent, blonde, Aryan… you’re perfect.’

  Magda’s route to school took her along the main road, before she cut across fields and through the wood, which lay on the edge of the village.

  When Magda was alone, she would often run the last part of the journey, nervous of hidden demons and strange sounds that lurked between the tall fir trees. Now as they entered the dark wood she felt more afraid of what Otto might do while they were in such a secluded place.