by Debbie Rix
Imogen, standing in the doorway, was uncertain what else she could say; her mother, as always, had said all that was necessary.
The sound of the wheelchair clattering into the hall made any words superfluous, as Mrs Latimer rushed past Rose and Imogen, and threw herself at her son.
Rose put her arm around Imogen’s shoulder.
‘Come on poppet… let’s leave them to their reunion.’
As the car drove away from Manor Park, Imogen spotted Dougie standing at the corner of the road. He was looking anxiously around.
‘Daddy, please stop the car,’ implored Imogen. ‘There’s someone I need to say goodbye to.’
As the Wolseley pulled up at the kerbside, Imogen leapt out.
‘Dougie… there you are.’
‘Oh Ginny – thank God. I thought I’d missed you.’
‘I know… I’m sorry I’ve not seen you. It’s been so difficult these last few days – the Latimers’ eldest son, Arthur, was killed at Dunkirk and Helen and I have been doing our best to look after Mr Latimer. I’m leaving today, for the summer.’
Dougie’s eyes filled with tears and he took her hands in his. Imogen was aware of her parents craning their necks to study the young stranger. The car door opened and her father got out.
‘Imogen… who’s this young fellow? Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
‘Yes, of course. Daddy, this is Douglas Henderson – he’s at the school next to ours.’
‘How do you do, Douglas,’ said her father, holding out his hand.
‘How do,’ said Dougie, blushing.
‘Well, Ginny dear…’ said her father, ‘we must get going – it’s a long drive and we need to be back before dark.’ He climbed back into the car.
‘Yes Daddy, of course. I’ll write, Dougie,’ she said, turning to him, ‘I promise. And we’ll be back in September.’
‘I won’t be here,’ he said.
‘Why?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘I’ve joined up.’
‘But you don’t need to yet; you had another year at school.’
‘You’ve heard the news. We’re needed. Fighting men.’
‘But you’re not a man. You’re a boy.’
‘I’m seventeen, nearly eighteen. I’ll be off in a week – army.’
‘Ginny,’ her father called from the car.
‘Yes, coming…’ She turned back to Dougie; tears were coursing down his cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, wiping his tears away with her fingers.
‘I’ll think of you,’ he said, leaning over and kissing her fleetingly on the mouth.
‘And I’ll think of you, too,’ she whispered.
As the car drove away she turned to look at Dougie through the rear window. He seemed so young suddenly, standing watching the car, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He was just a child, she realised, not even shaving yet, on the verge of entering a man’s world. She pushed aside the thought that she might never see him again. It was too upsetting to contemplate.
Part II
Plotting
1942–1943
This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.
But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning
Winston Churchill
Chapter Twelve
Gosforth
April 1942
Imogen ran down the stairs of her parent’s house. She was relieved to be home for the Easter holidays. On the cusp of her eighteenth birthday, she was due to leave school in a few months, and was looking forward to the next phase in her life – going to university to study architecture.
That evening her mother was having a small party for friends and neighbours including, much to Ginny’s delight, Philip and Freddie McMasters. Imogen had not seen Freddie for over two years and she was intrigued at the thought of meeting him again.
‘Edith,’ she called out, as she walked through to the kitchen. The Mitchells’ maid Edith had been back with the household since the death of her own mother a year or so earlier. Hetty had last been heard of working in a munitions factory on the other side of the Tyne.
‘Is my mother at home?’
‘No, Miss. She’s gone to Bainbridge’s… to buy some trimming for her hat.’
Imogen looked blank.
‘For Easter Sunday, Miss – she wants to smarten up her hat.’
‘Oh I see. I just wondered what time the guests were coming?’
‘Seven-thirty, she said.’
‘Is everything ready? Anything I can do?’
‘No Miss – you know your mother… it’s all organised. The bits of food are all ready, the sitting room’s laid out. She asked me to remind you to change your frock.’
‘Of course I’ll change my frock. Mummy remade that old green summer dress of mine. She’s so clever – it was too short so she added an edging round the bottom, in plain green fabric and made a matching belt – it looks really rather stylish!’
At the party that evening, as Imogen assisted Edith handing round plates of food to guests, she listened to snippets of conversation.
‘So tell me, Philip,’ said her father to Mrs McMasters’ son as he poured whisky into his glass, ‘how’s life in the navy?’
‘Oh interesting… demanding. I’m part of the Home Fleet. I’m moving to a new ship in the Atlantic when I leave here. We’re hoping that now the Americans are in the war, things might get easier.’
‘And what of your brothers?’
‘Well Fred’s in the RAF; he’s just about to start proper training in Canada – lucky bugger, and Jonno is stationed in North Africa. Not heard from him for a while, but I think he’s OK.’
‘Well that’s good to hear,’ said Joe. ‘And what of your university chums? Are they all doing all right?’
‘Yes – as far as I know; scattered, like the four winds. Most are in the army, one or two, like me, joined the navy. Interestingly, there were a couple of Germans in my year at Oxford – a Rhodes scholar among them.’
‘Germans?’ Joe asked. ‘Didn’t they go back when the whole thing kicked off?’
‘One did… yes, but another chap – Karl was his name… was rather on our side. He was studying economics like me, but was a bit older – a brilliant scholar. He had an interesting perspective on things. I think he’s been interned now. Bit of a shame, really. He seemed keen to help.’
‘What? To work against the Fatherland?’
‘I know – odd. But he’d long felt the Nazis didn’t have the right idea. Anyway, he’s locked up for the duration.’
‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘Best place for him, I imagine. Well, I must move on. The natives will get restless.’
Imogen spotted Freddie standing in the bay window of the drawing room, nursing an empty glass. Wearing his RAF uniform, which matched his grey-blue eyes, he was sandwiched between his own mother and Imogen’s mother Rose. The two women were discussing plans for an imminent church social due to take place on Easter Sunday and although he was doing his best to appear interested, it was clear he was bored. Imogen, keen to both rescue him and get him to herself, was just about to interject, when her father appeared at her elbow.
‘Another drink, Freddie?’ Joe asked proffering the whisky bottle.
‘Yes, sir – thanks.’ Freddie held out his glass.
‘Tell you what,’ Joe said, winking. ‘Perhaps you could do me a favour, and help yourself. The drinks are just over there.’ He gestured towards a table laid out with spirits on the far side of the drawing room. ‘Imogen will show you, won’t you darling?’ He smiled at his daughter, who blushed faintly.
‘Of course,’ said Freddie. ‘I’d be delighted.’ He and Imogen pushed through the throng of guests towards the drinks table. ‘Jolly decent of your father to rescue me,’ Freddie said quietly, pouring himself a large whisky. ‘Can I top you up?’
‘No… I’m all right thanks,’ she said, indicating her full glass of Dubonnet and soda. ‘I’m not sure church socials are the
most interesting topic of conversation, are they? Would you like something to eat?’
Imogen retrieved a plate of anchovy toast from the bottom shelf of the drinks table and Freddie took a small morsel of food and crunched down on it.
‘Mmm delicious – your mother’s work, I presume?’
‘Oh absolutely… definitely not mine. I’m the most terrible cook. Growing up with Mummy and Edith – I’ve just never had to learn. It’s awful isn’t it?’
‘How’s school?’ he asked, taking another piece of toast from the plate.
‘Oh… so boring. I’ll be leaving this summer and can hardly wait. It’s not much fun living away; we’re billeted in a sort of boarding house now, which is easier than living with a family, to be honest. But it’s not the same as being at home.’
‘Ah, boarding school! I remember it well,’ said Freddie, sipping his drink.
‘Where were you?’ she asked, ‘somewhere down south?’
‘Yes. I was in the West Country. Made me the man I am today,’ he said, laughing.
‘Well you certainly look very dashing in your uniform,’ Imogen said. ‘When did you join the RAF?’
‘I joined the college squadron when I started university, but I’m off to Canada in a few days. I’ll be there some time for a period of intensive training. I’m rather looking forward to it.’
‘Oh,’ she said, disappointment etched into her voice. ‘I was hoping we might see something of one another while I’m home.’
‘Me too. But I’m not off till after Easter Monday – so I’ve got another couple of days. Maybe we can go into town?’
‘I’d love that,’ she said, thrilled to be finally asked out. ‘I really would.’
‘Imogen,’ her mother called out across the room. ‘Are you going to pass those toasts around?’
‘Yes Mummy… coming.’ She smiled at Freddie. ‘Duty calls!’
‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’
They met at seven o’clock in the bar of the Station Hotel. Freddie was waiting for Imogen in a small booth off to one side.
‘Oh there you are,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘I couldn’t see you… thought you might have stood me up.’
Freddie leapt to his feet. ‘I’d never do that! I just thought it would be nice to have somewhere peaceful to chat. What would you like to drink?’
‘Gin and it,’ she said, confidently.
‘Really?’ Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘No reason… it’s just a bit strong. But if you’re sure – “gin and it” coming up.’
Truthfully, Ginny had never even tasted a ‘gin and it’. A mixture of gin and vermouth, she had only seen sophisticated women ordering it in films and, desperate to impress Freddie, thought it would make her seem more grown up.
As she took her first sip, she struggled to conceal her disgust.
‘All right?’ he asked gently.
‘Yes, absolutely. Delicious,’ she said. ‘So, this is nice. I haven’t been here before. I’ve been stuck in the Lakes for so long and they don’t have many nice hotel bars over there. Besides, we’d never be allowed in. We’d be spotted as soon as we walked through the door.’
‘Why?’ asked Freddie.
‘We have to wear some bit of uniform at all times, even on Sundays – a school coat, or beret or something – so if we break a school rule, we can be identified! Makes sneaking into pubs and hotel bars nigh on impossible.’
‘How frustrating,’ said Freddie, sipping his pint.
‘It’s more than frustrating – it’s inhuman!’ She laughed and took another sip of the drink, her taste buds gradually adjusting to the sour flavours. She began to relax, feeling the alcohol spreading through her body.
‘And have you?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Broken some rules?’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘A few,’ she said teasingly.
‘Tell me more…’
‘No,’ she said, sipping her drink. She was keen for him to see her as something other than a schoolgirl. ‘You tell me instead about Canada. That sounds far more interesting than a few schoolgirl pranks.’
‘Nothing much to tell, if I’m honest. I’ve never been there. But I gather it’s a big place – lots of wide open spaces where we can crash the planes.’ He laughed.
‘Oh please don’t do that,’ she said, grabbing his hand. ‘I simply couldn’t bear it.’
‘I won’t,’ he said gently, squeezing her hand. ‘At least, I’ll try not to.’
As the evening wore on, they chatted easily about Freddie’s ambitions after the war.
‘I’m looking forward to learning to fly, obviously, but really I just want to get back to university.’
‘You’re training to be an architect, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ he said.
‘I know you probably think it sounds silly… but I’m hoping to be an architect too. I’ve always been rather good at drawing and my maths is not bad. I’ve applied to the School of Architecture in Newcastle – like you.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Your mother mentioned you wanted to study engineering, like your father.’
‘Yes – that was my first idea. But it turns out the university won’t let me.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because I’m a woman I suppose. They said it had never been done before… ridiculous isn’t it?’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Well, architecture’s great. You’ll love it. Much more interesting than engineering anyway, and they’re going to need us when this is all over.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! Think of all those houses that will need rebuilding. Oh Lord…’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I had no idea it was so late; we really ought to get going.’
‘Oh we don’t have to go yet, do we?’ Imogen had a profound sense that this might be her last chance to tell Freddie how she felt about him. He’d be going away to Canada soon and she would be back at school. It might be years before they had a chance to meet again. ‘You’re so easy to talk to and I’ve had such a lovely time,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘I don’t really want it to end.’
He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Neither do I if I’m honest. You’re a very special girl – do you know that?’
‘Only when I’m with you… everything makes sense when I’m with you.’
He looked at her, his grey eyes widening. ‘You’re very sweet,’ he said. ‘But I really think we should get back,’ he said at last. ‘I told your father I’d have you home by nine.’
Outside the hotel he held the door to his little Morris car open for her. As she slid past him, their faces just inches away from each other, she looked up into his eyes, willing him to kiss her. He leant down and brushed her lips with his own. She felt her head spinning, her legs giving way slightly.
‘Hey,’ he said, catching her in his arms. ‘Are you all right?’ He helped her into the car.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling up at him. But as they drove north through Jesmond Dene on their way to Gosforth, she began to feel a little queasy, the sour taste of the ‘gin and it’ repeating on her, her mouth filling with saliva. She was about to ask him if they could stop, when they heard the mournful wailing of the air-raid sirens.
‘Damn!’ said Freddie. ‘Come on, we’d better pull over. They’ll probably be heading east towards the docks. We should be safe enough here.’
As he pulled over at the side of the road, Imogen began to struggle with the door handle.
‘I’ve got to get out,’ she said, clutching at her mouth.
‘Don’t do that, sit tight – we’ll be all right.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.
‘What now?’ he asked calmly. ‘Well, we’d better get you out of the car, hadn’t we?’ He opened the passenger door and guided her to the side of the pavement.
As a row of searchlights picked out the line of German Heink
el bombers flying low over the city, Imogen vomited against the garden wall of a large red brick house while Freddie held her dark hair away from her face.
Soon the sound of her retching was drowned out by the sound of bombs falling.
‘That was a bit too close for comfort,’ said Freddie. ‘Come on Ginny – back in the car. I think we’re sitting ducks here.’
‘I can’t,’ muttered Imogen, retching one more time.
‘You must! Throw up in the car for all I care. We’re getting out of here – now!’
As he drove the car down the road, his lights dimmed to avoid detection, there was an earth-shattering sound a few hundred yards behind them. Pieces of masonry spattered noisily against the car, and Freddie jammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal. Parking a few hundred yards further on, he looked back through the car’s rear window, and watched as the bombers flew down along the Tyne towards South Shields, their route lit up on that moonless night by successive explosions.
‘That was a close shave,’ said Freddie. ‘I’d better go back and see if there’s anything I can do to help.’
As he walked away from the car, he heard Imogen racing after him. ‘I’m coming too.’
‘No… go back. Wait for me in the car.’
‘No! I’ve done first aid at school. I might be able to help.’
As they ran down the road in the darkness, it seemed there had been very little damage.
‘Everything seems fine,’ said Imogen. ‘Perhaps we were wrong – and the bomb fell further away from here.’
‘No, it was definitely right behind us. It must be a bit further on,’ said Freddie.
On the other side of the crossroads, Ginny looked around. There was a break in the clouds above and a glimmer of moonlight illuminated the road and surrounding houses.
‘Where’s that house… the large one, where I was sick?’ she asked.
‘It was here,’ said Freddie, gesturing towards a gaping hole in the ground. Just one wall remained vertical, its violet-coloured wallpaper flapping incongruously in the breeze. The rafters of what remained of the roof hung precariously from the wall. The rest of the house and its contents had been completely destroyed. Even the garden wall, where moments before Imogen had been so sick, was gone.