by Debbie Rix
‘Morning girls,’ said Nigel, a naval attaché who had moved in the previous week. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Not likely – our room is like ice,’ said Imogen, smearing her miniscule portion of butter onto a piece of clammy white bread.
‘You can always bunk up with me if you’re cold,’ Nigel said, smirking.
‘Nice try, you letch,’ said Joy, pouring tea. ‘Eat up Ginny, or we’ll be late.’
As the girls ran upstairs to collect their hats and gas masks, their landlady – Mrs Palmer – called after them.
‘I hope you won’t be late again tonight. It’s most inconvenient having to let people in after I’ve already gone to bed. I like the door to be bolted by ten.’
‘We’ll try,’ Imogen called out. ‘But it all depends on our work… I’m sorry.’
She heard Mrs Palmer muttering ‘bloody war,’ to herself.
Mrs Palmer was a sour-faced woman in her late fifties, who employed two young girls to clean the ‘common parts’ – as she called the hall and landings – and serve in the dining room. She appeared permanently disgruntled, as if the war and all its consequences had been sent specifically to irritate her.
On their first evening, as Imogen and Joy sat, anxiously, in the unfamiliar dining room, waiting for their minimal supper to be served, she announced that if there was any more bombing, she would close up and leave. ‘It’s really a disgrace,’ she said, as she slammed two bowls of thin tomato soup in front of her new lodgers. ‘How we’re supposed to carry on I have no idea.’
Imogen and Joy had giggled as she left the high-ceilinged dining room. ‘Blimey,’ said Joy, ‘she’s a bundle of laughs…’
They had been transferred a week earlier from their postings in Gosforth to the headquarters of a new department, based in St James’s, London.
They received their transfer papers on the same day and rushed to find one another.
‘Ginny,’ said Joy. ‘I’m moving to London.’
‘Me too,’ said Imogen. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Norfolk House.’
‘So am I!’ said Imogen. ‘How extraordinary! What’s it about, do you think?’
‘They’re putting a team together for a new op… something a bit secret, that’s all my supervisor said. They’re taking girls from the RAF, the ATS and the Wrens – writers, plotters, radio operators, the whole lot.’
‘Why us?’ asked Imogen.
‘Don’t know – but it’s exciting isn’t it?’
‘Yes… very,’ said Imogen.
‘You said you wanted a new start,’ said Joy, ‘looks like someone was listening.’
After their initial excitement, their farewell at Newcastle station with their families had been emotional. Standing on the platform, Imogen’s father Joe hugged her so tightly she felt she could hardly breathe.
‘I’ve bought you both lunch in the first class dining carriage,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. ‘Your table’s booked for one o’clock, so don’t be late… and enjoy it. It might be the last good meal you get for a while.’ His voice was strong and compelling, but Imogen felt his tears as he kissed her goodbye.
The lump in Imogen’s throat made speaking virtually impossible. ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ was all she could say.
Her mother, who was always calm in a crisis, hugged her daughter, saying simply, ‘I’ll be with you in spirit always, darling. Be brave, be strong, and don’t be too naughty! Remember – I’m very proud of you.’
Fighting back her own tears, Imogen kissed her mother’s soft cheek. ‘Oh Mummy, I feel just as scared as when I was sent away to the Lakes. I’ll miss you so much.’
‘And I’ll miss you too,’ Rose said. ‘But just remember what fun you had in the Lakes. It made you so… self-reliant. And you’ve been selected for this post because you’re good at what you do. You should be very proud of yourself. Now off you go, and don’t forget to write!’
Hanging out of the carriage window, Imogen watched as her tall, angular father took the arm of her tiny, straight-backed mother and together they walked towards the barrier. Imogen’s heart was filled with tenderness. Her parents, who had always been such stalwart supports, always there in a crisis, suddenly seemed so alone and vulnerable. Swallowing back tears, she wondered fleetingly if that might be the last time she ever saw them. But as the train finally pulled away from the station and they crossed the bridge over the Tyne, she pushed all negative thoughts to the back of her mind and settled into her seat.
‘It’s just like evacuation day, isn’t it?’ said Joy, excitedly. ‘Except without the labels round our necks!’
When they arrived at the shabby Victorian house in Belsize Park later that evening, they were relieved to discover they would be sharing a room. But as they looked around at the tired lino, the cold, empty grate and the thin bedding, their initial excitement turned to anxiety.
‘Oh Joy,’ said Imogen, dropping her case on the floor. ‘It’s a bit grim… we’ll be all right, won’t we?’
‘Of course we will, darling,’ said Joy cheerfully. ‘Never mind the décor… we’re going to have a fine old time.’
In contrast to their shabby lodgings, their offices were in an elegant Georgian townhouse in St James’s. Unusually, they discovered that men and women from all three services – Army, Navy and RAF – would be working together. After a cursory inspection of the layout of the building, they were asked to sign the Official Secrets Act, which unnerved them both.
‘Everything done or said in this building is top secret,’ said the Chief Petty Officer when they arrived. ‘Is that clear? Your work here will be of vital national importance.’
Both girls nodded, nervously, and signed the paperwork.
‘You will see the word “BIGOT” stamped on all documents,’ continued the officer. ‘You will come to understand the significance of that in due time. Now, if you go up the first floor you’ll get your assignments.’
Joy was sent, predictably, to the writing room, where women worked long hours typing up notes from the various senior personnel in the building. All top quality secretaries in their own right, their work was vital to the project. Imogen, who had worked as a plotter up in Newcastle, was shown into the private office of one of the senior naval staff, Admiral Spalding.
‘Come in Wren Mitchell,’ he said, standing politely as she entered. A tall man with fair hair and kind pale-blue eyes, he indicated a chair opposite his desk. She sat down, nervously.
‘You’ve travelled down from Newcastle, I gather?’
‘Yes sir – yesterday.’
‘Digs OK?’
‘Yes… perfectly, sir.’
‘And you’ve been working as a plotter up there?’
‘Yes…’
‘Quite of lot of traffic up there, I’d imagine. North Sea’s a busy place.’
‘Yes sir… but it’s been interesting. I enjoyed it very much. I was lucky, because my parents live in Gosforth, so I was able to live at home.’
‘And you’re training to be an architect?’
‘Yes. I completed my first year at the School of Architecture in Newcastle – Kings College – it’s part of Durham University. But then it was time to join up, so I joined the Wrens in June, did my training and became a plotter.’
‘And why did you choose the navy?’
‘Oh, you know. Quite a nice uniform…’ She smiled, and then blushed at having made such a trivial remark. ‘But seriously sir, I like plotting – it suits my brain.’
‘You speak languages too, I gather?’
‘Oh, yes. Just higher certificate – French and German… but I have quite a good command of both.’
‘So, quite a talented young lady.’ He smiled.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ she said, blushing.
‘Do you type, by any chance? Take shorthand?’
‘I do, sir, yes. My mother insisted I did a short course when I left school, before I started university. I really didn’t want to do it… and I
can’t pretend my speeds are exactly brilliant.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll manage.’
Imogen looked surprised.
‘Shall we make a start?’ the Admiral asked.
‘On what, sir?’
‘Dictation. There’s a pad just there on my desk. Your plotting will come in handy down the line, don’t worry about that, but for now, I need someone to work just for me… Someone I can rely on. I have a feeling you might be just the ticket. But it’ll be hard work. And all very hush-hush. You’re not to speak of anything that you see or do in this building, and particularly in this room. Do you understand?’
Imogen nodded.
‘And you’ve signed the relevant forms, I presume?’
‘The Official Secrets Act? Yes, sir. We did it first thing this morning.’
‘We?’
‘Myself, and my best friend, Joy. It was rather a miracle really. She’s a really good typist – top notch. Perhaps you ought to have her instead of me?’
He smiled. ‘Go on…’
‘Well, she worked for the council in Newcastle after we left school, then she joined the Wrens when I did. We’ve known each other since we were eleven. We were evacuated to the Lakes together. So when we heard we’d been transferred to London it was rather a miracle.’
The Admiral smiled.
‘Good, I like to think of my staff having friends. Nice to know we get it right sometimes. Now… that memo?’
Much to her relief, Imogen discovered that her work involved a lot more than shorthand and typing. She took minutes of meetings and occasionally translated documents for her boss. She also liaised with other departments, often in person. Those journeys around the capital meant she gradually became familiar with London’s geography. But the bombing in London was something she could never completely get used to. There had been air attacks in Newcastle of course, but nothing had prepared her for the weekly devastation that London endured at the beginning of 1944. She and Joy learnt never to leave the house without their gas mask boxes, where they kept a toothbrush and spare underwear, in case they had to stay overnight at work. A basement room had been arranged with narrow bunk beds where they would join other staff, sleeping fitfully in cramped conditions. Imogen kept a spare nightdress and a clean shirt in her office drawer and became used to washing in a basin in the ladies’ lavatories early in the morning before a full day’s work. In many ways it reminded her of sleeping in the dormitory at school.
The staff at Norfolk House somehow continued with their work through repeated bombing raids. One day at the end of January sirens sounded and they hurried down to the shelters in the basement of the building. When they emerged a few hours later, they were told the Houses of Parliament and New Scotland Yard had both taken a direct hit.
A few days later, Imogen had only just returned from delivering some important papers to the war office, when the sirens sounded once again, accompanied by the incessant firing of anti-aircraft guns. Later, emerging from the shelter, she discovered the area had been subjected to a phosphorous incendiary attack, causing damage even to ‘The Fortress’ – the war office’s reinforced concrete extension. The following day, as Imogen emerged from the tube station on her way to work, another bomb fell on Whitehall, a second in Horse Guards Parade and one even in St James’s Park itself. When she finally arrived at the office, she discovered her building had been miraculously spared, but rumour had it that the windows of No. 10 Downing Street had been shattered.
That evening, over dinner at their digs, Imogen and Joy discussed her ‘near miss’.
‘I spent half the afternoon in the shelter at the War Office yesterday,’ Imogen told Joy. ‘I had to take some papers over for General Eisenhower. Top Secret… for his eyes only. It seems the Americans are gearing up for something big.’
‘How exciting,’ said Joy.
The landlady’s daughter, a frail skinny girl named Phyllis, clattered into the dining room and put down two unappetising bowls of oxtail soup in front of Imogen and Joy. They waited for her to leave before continuing.
‘I suppose we shouldn’t really be talking about this, should we?’ whispered Joy.
‘No… you’re probably right,’ said Imogen, looking around at the other diners. ‘But as long as we’re careful, it should be all right. At least we’ve finally found out what BIGOT means: British Invasion of German Occupied Territory.’
Joy nodded and slurped her soup.
‘The frustrating thing is,’ said Imogen, ‘I don’t really have any more of the details.’
‘I’d have thought,’ said Joy, ‘with old man Spalding being virtually in charge, you’d know everything?’
‘Well my problem is that I have all the pieces of the jigsaw laid out in front of me, but no idea how they fit together.’
‘From what I can see in the typing pool,’ said Joy, ‘there’s a lot of chat about troop movements. Portsmouth’s been mentioned.’ The landlady’s daughter returned and removed their used plates. Ginny and Joy glanced meaningfully at one another.
‘We’d better keep quiet,’ whispered Imogen, when Phyllis had gone. ‘We don’t want to be strung up for revealing state secrets.’
Back in their room, they lay on their beds, on either side of the bay window.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Joy. ‘Why don’t we go out? I’m not sure I can face another evening staring at the ceiling.’
‘What, now?’ asked Imogen. ‘Why not read your book? It’s freezing outside.’
‘I’ve finished my book,’ said Joy. ‘Besides, it’s freezing inside too, and at least a pub will be warm.’
‘Well that’s true,’ said Imogen, swinging her legs off the bed.
‘And… I’ve yet to meet my dream man.’ said Joy. ‘Most of the officers at work are old enough to be my father. And who knows, the dreamboat might be lurking in some pub somewhere. So come on Ginny – let’s go to that big pub up on Hampstead Heath – The Spaniard’s Inn. Someone told me it’s the oldest pub in London and it always looks rather beautiful from the outside.’
‘But it’s miles away,’ protested Imogen. ‘Can’t we just go to that one on the corner?’
‘Oh no,’ said Joy. ‘Nigel the letch is bound to be in there.’
‘Maybe he’s your dreamboat,’ said Imogen, smiling.
‘Don’t you dare!’ said Joy. ‘He’s positively rancid. Have you seen his hands? So small and clammy.’ She shuddered. ‘No… I’ve decided. We’re going to the Spaniard’s.’
As Imogen and Joy pushed open the Inn’s door, they had to fight their way through the tightly packed crowd in order to reach the bar.
‘Two gins, please,’ Joy called out over the heads of other drinkers. The barman busied himself with another customer. ‘Excuse me…’ she shouted indignantly.
‘Joy… keep your voice down,’ said Imogen.
‘Why should I? He’s ignoring me.’ Then, ducking under a man’s arm, she forced her way to the front and shouted loudly at the barman. ‘Excuse me… I want a drink.’
‘May I help you?’ asked a tall dark-haired man standing next to her; he had a strong foreign accent.
‘Oh, that’s awfully kind,’ said Joy, then shouting towards the barman’s back, added: ‘We just can’t get his attention.’
‘Two drinks for the ladies,’ said the young man.
‘All right Fritz – I’m coming,’ said the barman.
Joy and Imogen looked at one another, silently mouthing ‘Fritz’.
‘Fritz?’ said Joy, as the man handed them their drinks.
‘Not my real name,’ said the man, smiling. ‘It’s his little joke.’
‘But you’re not English, are you?’ said Joy, sipping her gin and tonic.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘So are you going to tell us where you do come from?’
Imogen kicked Joy in the shin.
‘What?’ said Joy. ‘There’s nothing wrong with asking, is there?’ she said to the young man.
&
nbsp; ‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘Come and join my friends.’
He led them over to a group of men sitting in a corner. They all stood politely as the women approached, and bowed slightly.
‘Good evening,’ one said.
‘Good evening,’ Imogen replied.
‘Please,’ said the young man, ‘sit with us.’
Joy and Imogen sat and looked around at the group.
‘Well…’ said Joy, ‘this is rather jolly – where are you all from?’
They glanced at one another before the dark-haired young man spoke again.
‘We are all from Germany… but before you have us arrested, we are on your side.’ He smiled.
‘Gosh,’ said Joy. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Oh Joy,’ said Imogen, ‘it’s like the POWs in the Lakes. Sergio – do you remember? He was an Italian POW,’ she explained to the men, ‘He worked at our school as a gardener.’
‘And on a local farm,’ Joy butted in. ‘He rescued Ginny here – carried her down a mountain when she broke her ankle – it was awfully romantic.’
Imogen blushed, ‘I twisted my ankle and it wasn’t a mountain, just a steep hill.’ The men laughed.
‘So what’s your name?’ Joy said to the young dark-haired man.
‘Karl. And this is Wilhelm, and Dieter, Werner and Ernst.’
The men nodded, politely.
‘Well it’s jolly nice to meet you. I’m Joy and this is my friend Imogen.’
‘So what are you all doing here, in Hampstead?’ asked Imogen.
‘We moved here well before the war,’ Karl explained. ‘Two of us are students, Dieter and Werner both got out in thirty-six – they’re Jewish, you see. ’
‘And you all met up in London?’ asked Joy.
‘Yes. We émigrés, you know – we cling to each other.’
‘And were you interned?’ asked Imogen.
‘Wilhelm and I were at first, yes. But over time, when they saw we were not a threat, we were released.’