by Daisy Wood
‘So this is our patch. Got your bearings?’ Hetta asked. ‘We’re on the east side of the building, above the terrace. That’s the roof of Westminster Hall,’ she pointed in the opposite direction, ‘and we’re standing on top of the Commons Chamber, more or less. Big Ben and the clock tower are behind us, as you see, so you won’t lose track of the time, and there,’ she turned in a semicircle, ‘is the tower over the central lobby, and the Victoria Tower beyond that. Covered in scaffolding at the moment, unfortunately, which doubles the fire risk.’ She glanced at Nell. ‘Think you can hold your nerve? It can get pretty hairy up here in a raid.’
‘I’ve lived through a few of them,’ Nell replied. ‘But tell me what to do again.’
‘If it’s an incendiary, tackle it with your stirrup pump. Spray, remember? Only use the jet setting for fires; if you jet a bomb, you’ll blow it to pieces. Or you can smother the thing with a sandbag if the pump’s impossible. There’s not much you can do with a high explosive except raise the alarm.’
‘By the telephone downstairs?’
Hetta nodded. ‘And blow your whistle too, to clear the building. The National Fire Service will take over. Sometimes the Abbey firewatchers lend a hand – they’re much better organised than we are. None of the MPs will go scrambling over roofs and the Home Guard aren’t keen either. Your husband’s not one of them, is he?’
‘No. He doesn’t like guns or marching about in a group.’
Hetta grinned. ‘Very sensible. Now come down and I’ll show you our sleeping quarters. Pretty basic, I’m afraid, so don’t get your hopes up.’
Five or six truckle beds had been set up in a corridor on the floor below, with an army blanket folded on each thin mattress. ‘This is where we girls bunk down,’ Hetta said. ‘A couple of nurses use the place too, but they’ll be going once Parliament’s in recess.’
‘And if the alert doesn’t sound, I can just sleep through?’
‘That’s right. Sounds appealing right now.’ Hetta sat on one of the beds. ‘I have the most thumping hangover.’
Nell sat on another. ‘I can do a shift every night if that would be useful.’
‘I’ll say. Are you sure?’ Hetta inspected her again. ‘Where are you staying at the minute?’
‘Various places. I was thinking of the shelter at Caxton Hall for tonight.’
‘Flitting about, then, like me.’ She lay back, folding her arms behind her head. ‘You’d be better off here. One thing, though. If there’s an axe propped outside the store cupboard, knock and come back in fifteen minutes.’ She yawned. ‘Hardly the most romantic place but it’s hard to find any privacy these days. Think you can look after yourself for a while? I might get some shut-eye before it all kicks off. I’ll be on duty in an hour or so. Join me if you like.’
Nell gathered her things and said goodbye but Hetta was already asleep, her angelic face pillowed in the crook of her arm. She went downstairs to change out of the siren suit and stow it with her helmet and rucksack back in the cupboard, feeling hopeful for the first time since she’d arrived in London. Once outside, she was sufficiently buoyed to set off for the Edgware Road, despite Hetta’s warning. What was the harm in taking a look? With a bit of luck, she might be able to get there and back before the alert sounded.
She was about to descend the steps to the underground when she spotted Bill Talbot walking towards her. They were about to cross paths when he swerved abruptly to the right and yanked open the door to a pub. Without thinking, she followed him through. The blackout blinds had been drawn and the saloon bar was dimly lit by several red-shaded lamps, the air thick with cigarette smoke. It felt as though she were stepping onto a stage set. An elderly man with a dog at his feet stared into his glass while two Auxiliary Territorial Service girls murmured in low, confidential voices, their heads close together.
She walked past Bill Talbot and waited at the bar while he ordered a drink – she didn’t catch what – leaning her bottom against the stool in a non-committal way while working out her approach. She’d never been in a pub on her own and assumed people would think she was a tart, despite her sensible shoes. Yet the barmaid, a sallow-faced woman with dyed jet-black hair standing up like a guardsman’s bearskin, greeted her pleasantly enough.
‘I’ll have a small sherry while I wait for my friend to arrive,’ she said, cautiously edging one buttock onto the seat.
They were all out of sherry, the woman said, but Nell was welcome to a pink gin, or a gin and orange, or a gin on the rocks. She chose a pink gin because that sounded the most innocuous. Spotting a newspaper on the bar close to where Talbot was sitting, she asked him whether she might have a look. ‘It’s not yours, is it? I’m assuming someone’s left it behind.’
‘Feel free,’ he grunted, scarcely bothering to look at her.
‘Thank you so much.’ She smiled pleasantly. He was utterly charmless, quite apart from the birthmark, yet she would persevere. What must it be like to present that face to the world, to know that a stranger’s first reaction would be one of revulsion? Even in this subdued light, his eye stared out from what looked like a slab of raw meat, as though his skin had been flayed. And then she remembered all the times Arthur had come home smarting and anxious from a confrontation with Bill Talbot, and hardened her heart.
She leafed through the paper. Three babies had been lowered from a torpedoed liner in baskets, one of them marked, ‘Baby – with care’, and winched onto the rescue boat by crane. ‘Would you believe it?’ she exclaimed, showing the barmaid the headline and relaying snippets from the article beneath. The captain had gone down with his ship, which they agreed was heroic and just as it should be.
‘More fool him.’ Talbot gave a sour laugh.
A honeymoon couple had died, too, she read aloud, returning to their cabin to retrieve wedding presents, and a ship’s steward, trying to find the Spitfire fund raised from staff wages and tips.
‘Spitfire fund!’ Bill Talbot snorted. ‘I ask you.’
‘Now then, Bill,’ said the barmaid. ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head.’
He muttered something inaudible, hunched over his tankard.
‘Don’t mind him,’ the woman reassured Nell. ‘I’m going through to the public bar but call if you need anything.’
Nell forced herself to smile chummily at Talbot. She told him that she’d given three good saucepans to the Spitfire fund and wished she hadn’t now. ‘They’re probably rusting away in a scrapyard somewhere.’
‘Course they bloody are,’ he grunted. ‘If my missus gave away three saucepans, I’d send her to fetch them back pretty sharpish.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes and flipped open the lid, then crumpled it in disgust and tossed it on the floor.
‘Have one of mine.’ Nell slid her packet along the bar.
‘All right, then,’ he said warily, snatching at it as though she might change her mind. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Nell glanced over her shoulder; the two women were deep in conversation and the old man was still contemplating his beer. ‘Feels like we’ve been taken for mugs, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘Bet there are still plenty of saucepans in the kitchens at Buckingham Palace.’
Talbot struck a match and bent his head to the flame. His hair was flecked with dandruff along the parting and his clothes smelt of stale food. What was she doing?
‘That’s for sure.’ He stared at her, inhaling deeply. ‘Makes me sick, the Queen trying to pretend she’s one of us. “Looking the East End in the face,” my eye! She’s not spending the night in an Anderson, is she?’
‘What does she know what it’s like, waiting three hours in a queue for a piece of scrag end?’ Nell racked her brains for other examples of royal privilege. ‘Or running out of coins for the gas meter?’
Talbot was still scrutinising her. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so.’ She was flustered by the suddenness of the question. ‘No, I would have remembered.’ Of course she would; once seen,
never forgotten.
He smiled. ‘I know who you are. I’ve seen your photograph. You’re Spelman’s wife, aren’t you? I’ve a good memory for faces.’
Nell thought about denying it, but in one swift movement he had grabbed her handbag and spilled its contents on the bar.
‘Well, well, well. Eleanor Spelman,’ he said, examining her identity card. He gave an unpleasant laugh and said with a leer, ‘So that’s how it is, eh? When the cat’s away, the mice will play.’
‘I know who you are, too, Mr Talbot.’ Nell managed to keep her voice steady. ‘You’ve heard, then, about my husband? I’ve been trying to find out exactly what’s happened but no luck so far.’
‘Can’t help you there.’ Talbot turned away, raising the glass to his lips. Outside, the wail of a siren started. The old man’s dog began to whine and the women drew apart, still talking as they reached for their caps.
‘You’re right, I was hoping to speak to you.’ There wasn’t much time. ‘To offer my services. I’m not like Arthur, you see. I’d be discreet and not get into trouble.’
That caught his attention. He stared at her, waiting.
‘I found this badge,’ she said hastily, fumbling for the thing in her pocket and laying it on the bar. ‘I wanted to come with Arthur to the meeting but he told me wives weren’t allowed.’ Talbot might think she was a fool but it was worth a shot.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, glancing at the badge without any emotion. ‘What meeting?’
‘The one in Park West.’ Nell gulped her gin, noticing the flicker of recognition in his eyes. ‘It sounded like the sort of thing that would interest me.’
‘Recipes and knitting patterns, you mean?’ He drained his beer and pushed the glass away.
‘A different way of thinking, if you catch my drift.’ She was gabbling now, and tried to slow down. ‘Fancy another? Let me buy you a chaser. A quick one, for the road. Set you up for the night ahead.’ She waved at the barmaid whom she could see through an archway, putting on her coat. ‘Whisky, please, if you have it. My husband thinks too much, that’s his problem,’ she went on as she turned back to Talbot, ‘and it makes him indecisive. I’m more of a one for action.’ Silently she apologised to Arthur for her disloyalty.
‘Drink up,’ the barmaid said. ‘Best not to hang about.’
Nell paid for the whisky and slid it along the bar. ‘Have you ever been to Park West?’ she asked, glancing at Talbot with her head to one side in a manner she hoped was coquettish. ‘Do you think I’d be welcome? If there are any more gatherings, I mean. Perhaps you could put in a good word for me.’
‘Why would I want to do that? Because you gave me a fag and stood me a drink?’ He downed the whisky in one, grimacing, and smacked his lips. ‘I’m not that cheap.’
‘Oh, suit yourself. I don’t care.’ She slung her handbag over her arm and pushed back the stool. ‘I thought you’d be different, that’s all. From what Arthur told me.’
Talbot chuckled. ‘Well, you’ve got some spirit, I’ll give you that.’ He looked her up and down. ‘What else do you have to offer?’
‘A darn sight more than my husband,’ Nell replied tartly; she knew Talbot would like that. Taking another leap in the dark, she added, ‘Maybe I could help with Handle.’
His expression changed at once. He stood up, put his arm under her elbow and steered her roughly through the pub door and out into the night. The siren wailed louder than ever, too loud for her to think straight. She glanced up at the sky: no planes yet, but soon they would come.
His mouth close to her ear, Talbot said in a low, menacing tone, ‘What exactly do you know about that?’
‘Only the name.’ His fingers were digging into her flesh and she was properly frightened now. ‘No details.’
‘Then keep your stupid mouth shut. Do you understand? Or someone will shut it for you.’ He stood back, contemplating her as if making up his mind. Then he said abruptly, ‘All right. Go to Park West and let’s see what they make of you. They’re meeting on Saturday at three. But don’t repeat that word, not to anyone there or anywhere else.’
‘I won’t, I promise.’ She forced a smile, her heart still beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Will you be going, Mr Talbot? I should like to keep in touch.’
‘Oh, we’ll keep in touch,’ he said, ‘don’t you worry about that. I’ll see you here, midday on Sunday, and we can carry on the conversation.’ He strode away, soon swallowed up by the night.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’ The black-haired barmaid loomed towards her through the dark. ‘Someone said you’d left together in a hurry and I was worried. He’s a cold fish, that one.’
‘Thanks. I’m fine, honestly.’ Nell rubbed her arm, sore from the imprint of Talbot’s grip. She had either made a terrible mistake or found her way to the heart of the matter – maybe both at once.
Chapter Sixteen
London, December 1940
It was a dark night with the merest sliver of moon only occasionally visible, yet still the bombers were coming – guided by radar, according to Hetta. The sirens carried on wailing, a pulsing wave of sound that washed across the city, gathering force as the alarm was taken up by one district after another. Every now and then, searchlight beams roamed the dense clouds. A gust of wind whipped over the rooftop, flapping the legs of Nell’s siren suit and setting her swaying on her feet. There was no shelter, nothing even to grab for balance. The ground was too far below and the wide, dangerous sky too close above her head. Gradually, she became aware of a rumble through the soles of her feet. The building itself seemed to vibrate, a sound that deepened into a roar as vast black shapes came screaming out of the sky, heading directly for them. Hetta threw back her head and yelled with wild exhilaration, ‘Here they come!’
Nell dropped to her knees instinctively, clasping her hands over her helmet. Someone pulled her upright and the sudden burst of a flare revealed Hetta, laughing, her legs planted firmly apart and a sandbag over her shoulder like a miniature Father Christmas. The image flashed through the dark with startling clarity, as though projected onto a cinema screen. Hetta’s lipstick had turned black in the surreal light and her skin was a porcelain mask; the St Christopher medal she wore round her neck glinted as though it were burning. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she shouted over the din.
More parachute flares were dropping around them, lighting up a turret here or a chimney stack there. The ack ack guns had begun firing and their shrapnel rained down; a chunk of metal clanged off the brim of Nell’s helmet and she could feel its heat. The planes had roared past and now she heard a soft, steady swoosh as the hundreds of incendiaries they’d unloaded tumbled through the air. She strained to see where the bombs landed. Most seemed to be falling further away, detonating with a brilliant white light that fizzled into yellow flames as fire took hold in distant streets. Louder blasts and the crash of collapsing masonry suggested high explosives or parachute mines were dropping too.
‘Over there!’ She turned in the direction Hetta was pointing to find an incendiary had lodged on the ridge of a nearby roof. Hetta was already running towards it, having swapped the sandbag for an axe. Nell followed, in time to see her shin up a fixed ladder over the tiles and sit astride the ridge. Swinging her legs back and forth, she inched towards the white heart of the glare, then steadied herself for a moment before hooking the axe blade under the bomb’s burning carcass and sending it flying through the air in a gleaming, fiery arc. The world plunged back into night; only seconds later, it seemed, Hetta was standing beside Nell, straightening her leather jacket.
‘The boys on the ground should deal with it now.’ She was hardly out of breath. ‘Did you play lacrosse at school? It comes in rather handy.’
But now another bomber had come screaming overhead and more incendiaries were plummeting down. One landed a hundred yards or so away.
‘That’s mine!’ Nell seized a stirrup pump and bucket from the heap of supplies by the parapet wall
and ran towards it.
‘Spray for bombs, remember?’ Hetta said, chasing behind her.
Nell hastily changed the setting on the pump’s nozzle and doused the writhing, spitting creature with water. It fizzled out in a sodden heap and Hetta gave her the thumbs up. Exhilarated, the blood pounding through her veins, Nell looked around for the next challenge. Tiny volcanoes of light flared up everywhere in the night; most were extinguished, only to emerge in other dark corners. A searchlight beam caught a spider crawling up the scaffolding of the Victoria Tower, and bells clanged in distant streets. At the far end of the roof on which they stood, an incendiary was burning behind the fretwork of a turret, scattering diamonds of orange light across the stone. They ran to deal with it, dodging shrapnel and debris, their feet crunching over the asphalt. Hetta had coiled a rope over her shoulder but it fell uselessly at their feet when she threw it: the tower’s crenellations were too high. Above their heads, the bomb sizzled merrily.
‘Think I can reach it on your shoulders,’ Hetta shouted. ‘Give me a leg up?’
She put her foot in the hammock of Nell’s hands, climbed onto her back and then, grunting with exertion, somehow managed to balance upright as Nell leaned against the wall. The soles of her boots dug into Nell’s shoulders but her weight was manageable. Nell held the bucket of water as Hetta sprayed with the pump until, at last, the fire had been extinguished and she was slithering to the ground. ‘Got it. Thanks.’
They stood for a moment, taking stock. ‘We could go into the circus when this is over,’ Nell said.
Hetta was lithe and sure-footed as a cat; she must have been a wonderful dancer. She laughed. ‘We make a good team, don’t you think?’
And then the Westminster Chimes rang out, followed by Big Ben striking the hour across the rooftop – just for them, it seemed. The night had lasted a lifetime yet it was only nine o’clock. They were walking back towards the heap of sandbags and other supplies when a flickering glow in the gulley between two roofs to their right caught their eye. The ladder up which Hetta had climbed had itself caught fire, flames licking down from the top; they could see the roof spars underneath already smouldering.