by Daisy Wood
‘My turn,’ Nell said, so Hetta held the bucket as she began to scramble up with the hose around her neck. A few feet up, her foot slipped on a smooth rung and she gasped, her heart in her mouth, but she was holding on tight; there was nothing to worry about, not really. Steadying herself, she took another step. Now she could feel the heat of the flames above and the breeze blew a gust of smoke in her face, making her eyes smart. What if another German plane flew out of the clouds? A fighter, equipped with a machine gun that could pick her off like the sitting duck she was, and send her cartwheeling through thin air like that incendiary, all the way down and down and down to the ground. She glanced over her right shoulder. A minuscule light shone in the courtyard below, with small dark figures swarming around it. The acrid taste of nausea burnt her throat; her hands were cold and damp with sweat. One more rung, one step at a time. But her legs were too heavy and too weak to move. She clung to the ladder, shaking and sick. Stuck.
‘Nell?’ Hetta’s clear voice floated towards her. ‘Look up, not down.’
Tentatively, she raised her head. The wind must have changed direction and the smoke had cleared. She took in a lungful of air, feeling the pounding in her chest ease a little. Flexing her fingers, she lifted one hand off the ladder and wiped it down her trouser leg before taking hold again. Her grip was strong.
‘That’s it,’ Hetta called. ‘Now find a star and fix your eyes on it. I’m coming to fetch you.’
Nell gazed into the sky. It was empty and quiet; the danger had passed. Clouds still hid the crescent moon but their cover was patchy and the longer she stared, the more stars she saw: three, then four, then dozens of pinpricks in the velvety sky, thousands of miles away in a galaxy that knew nothing of war. She chose the brightest one and focused on it until her breathing became regular and the buzzing in her head had cleared. And now, suddenly, the bells were chiming again for the quarter hour. She thought of Arthur, facing his own demons, and felt the warmth of his watch against her skin.
‘All right?’ Hetta’s hand pressed against the small of her back, warm and firm.
‘Yes, fine. Sorry.’ Resting against the ladder, she unhooked the hose from around her neck, changed the setting on the nozzle to jet and doused the flames. Drops of cold water splashed on her upturned face as, slowly, she came back to herself.
‘Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.’ Hetta stamped out her cigarette. ‘My fault, really, for letting you climb up there in those shoes. Another drink?’ She offered the hip flask.
Nell accepted gratefully, took a sip of brandy and passed it back. ‘I bet it’s never happened to you.’
Hetta laughed, but didn’t contradict her. ‘We’ll have to get you some decent boots.’ She stretched out her legs to admire the thick rubber soles of her own. ‘I’ll talk to the controller when we sign off.’ She had maintained her usual level of style in tailored trousers and a flying jacket with a sheepskin collar that must have been made for a child. They were sitting on a couple of upturned packing cases, passing the time before the All Clear sounded or another raid sent them rushing about like demented ants.
‘Arthur never told me about fire watching,’ Nell said. Then again, she had never asked. ‘I suppose he didn’t want to worry me.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Just over a year and a half.’ Not long, was it? ‘Our daughter’s coming up for nine months.’
‘You have a baby?’ Hetta whistled. ‘Then I definitely shouldn’t have let you up the ladder. I’m expendable – you’re not.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that. My mother’s looking after Alice; she probably hasn’t even noticed I’ve gone.’ Nell sighed and changed the subject. ‘How about you? Any boyfriends, I mean?’
‘One or two. Nobody special.’ Hetta took a bar of chocolate from her pocket, broke off a couple of squares and offered them to Nell. ‘I had a fiancé but he was a fighter pilot and didn’t last long, so now I’m fancy free. Living for the moment, you might say. Fewer complications.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Or at least that’s the theory.’
Nell tried to imagine what she would be doing if she weren’t a wife and mother. ‘What do you think life will be like after the war?’
Hetta shrugged. ‘Depends on whether we win or lose.’
Nell stared at her, shocked. She had never heard anyone voice the possibility of defeat; it was the sort of talk that could get you into serious trouble.
‘It’ll be different, that’s for sure,’ Hetta went on. ‘Especially for us women. Now we’ve had a taste of freedom, we won’t give it up in a hurry.’
And that idea was startling, too. Nell thought for a while. ‘Do you actually want a career, though?’
‘A career sounds frightfully serious.’ Hetta stood and stretched. ‘I want to live abroad, preferably somewhere scorching hot, sunbathe naked all day and swim in the sea, drink wine and eat delicious food with my fingers. I might do a little work to support myself but only of the strictly frivolous and entertaining kind. I’ll be an artist’s muse, perhaps, or run a louche hotel, or dance at the Folies Bergère. Then, when I’m old, I shall scandalise society by taking a succession of young lovers, male and female, and treating them all very badly. I shan’t ever talk about the war and if anyone asks, I’ll say I don’t remember.’
Nell smiled. ‘How wonderful. May we come and stay in your hotel?’
Hetta turned to her. ‘Don’t you see? This war is the start of something, not just an ending. For all the horror, at least we have that. You can negotiate new terms with your husband, tell him how you want to live. Especially since you’re risking life and limb for his sake.’ She sat again on the upturned packing case and yawned. ‘I hope he’s worth it.’
‘He is,’ Nell assured her. ‘All I want is to live with him and our daughter. I don’t care about the terms, as long as we’re together.’
‘How sweet.’
‘Time for another cig?’ Nell produced her pack. There wasn’t much else to do and she wanted to share something with Hetta, who had already given her so much.
‘How’s your investigation going, by the way?’ Hetta took one. ‘Made any progress?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ Nell suppressed an involuntary shiver of disquiet. ‘I’m going to Park West on Saturday. To the meeting, remember, that I told you about?’
‘Are you, indeed?’ The flare of a match revealed Hetta’s sharp glance. ‘So you’re going to pretend to be one of them. Think you can carry it off?’
‘I’ll give it my best shot. Like Arthur.’ That must have been why he had the ghastly badge – either that, or Talbot had planted it in his pocket. ‘I’ll find out what they’re up to and …’ And then what? ‘And make the police see he could have had nothing to do with it.’
‘But what if you end up in trouble, too? Or discover he’s involved in some Fascist plot after all?’
She shook her head. ‘There has to be another explanation.’
‘I suppose at least then you’d know,’ Hetta said, as though Nell hadn’t spoken.
At that moment, the continuous note of the All Clear rang out. ‘Marvellous.’ Hetta clamped the cigarette between her lips and started to gather together the various pieces of equipment. ‘Let’s get this lot downstairs,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes against the smoke. ‘Don’t mind holding the fort, do you? Now you know the ropes? There’s a dry martini and a rather gorgeous navigator waiting for me at the Four Hundred.’
It took them a couple of trips to clear the roof, and another five minutes in the store cupboard for Hetta to change into a backless silk gown. She still wore her boots with the flying jacket on top, and carried her dancing shoes wrapped in a shawl. ‘See you in the morning,’ she said. ‘Or maybe tomorrow night? Be careful! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
Which didn’t really limit Nell at all.
She lay fully dressed under a blanket on the truckle bed, waiting for the sirens to sound or the nu
rses to arrive. Sleep seemed a remote possibility. One thought consoled her: at least here she was safe from Bill Talbot.
Arthur had been transferred to Brixton Prison, Nell discovered, when she called at Scotland Yard the next morning. She would have to telephone there to find out about visiting times. Barring a miracle, it looked as though he wouldn’t be out in time for Christmas. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to her mother again so she sent a telegram instead, saying all was well and she hoped to be home early the next week, Tuesday at the latest. That was Christmas Eve, so she was cutting it fine. Rose would be worried but Alice wouldn’t know the difference; one day was the same as another to her. Returning to the Palace of Westminster, Nell ate a hearty breakfast in the staff canteen before strolling out through Old Palace Yard. A few pieces of shrapnel lay here and there on the pavement, and an empty sandbag had been blown into the branches of a tree. Nell turned up her coat collar, wondering whether to sit in the Abbey for a while or walk to Regent Street and see whether her money would stretch to toys in Hamley’s for all the evacuees. Malcolm would be reunited with his mother for Christmas so at least she didn’t have to worry about him.
As she strolled along Whitehall, she became aware of someone following close behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a nondescript man in an astrakhan overcoat and relaxed, because he wasn’t Talbot. She wasn’t unduly worried when the pace of his footsteps increased, and at the same time, a car that had been idling its way down the street drew up at the kerb alongside her and someone opened the rear door from inside. At that precise moment, the man in the astrakhan coat bumped into her. Instead of apologising, he took her by the elbow and bundled her into the back of the car, so swiftly and unexpectedly that she hadn’t even time to cry out, let alone resist. Slamming the door behind her, he climbed into the front passenger seat and the car accelerated smoothly away past the Cenotaph.
‘Help!’ Nell screamed, beating on the window. ‘I’m being kidnapped!’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ said the man wearily, as though she were a tiresome child. ‘This car is soundproof and anyway, there’s nobody about. And you’re not being kidnapped.’
‘Then what would you call it?’
‘We want a word with you, that’s all.’ He hadn’t even bothered to turn around.
‘And who’s “we”?’ Nell demanded. He didn’t reply so she tried her luck with the driver, a pale young woman with lank hair and a red nose. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Not far,’ the girl said, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket with one hand and blowing her nose. The car swerved and the man in the overcoat tutted, putting a hand on the steering wheel to correct it. ‘Just off St James’s Street, actually,’ she added, sniffing. ‘Won’t be long.’
Nell’s heart was pounding. She had no idea what to do apart from shouting again, which would serve no purpose except to embarrass her, so she declared, ‘This is outrageous!’ and sat tall on the back seat with as much dignity as she could muster.
They drew up about ten minutes later outside an elegant four-storey house in red brick with a ‘To Let’ sign above the door. Nell was escorted from the car by the man who had pushed her into it, while the girl with the red nose drove off in search of a parking space. She wondered briefly about making a run for it but he was holding her arm tightly and actually, the part of her that wasn’t frightened was intrigued. She wanted to see what would happen next.
Inside, the building had an atmosphere of frenetic activity. An urgent clatter of typewriter keys floated through open doors, footsteps thumped along corridors and a man with one arm, his empty sleeve pinned out of the way, ran past them down the stairs without breaking his stride. A telephone rang shrilly below. ‘Will someone answer that bloody thing?’ shouted a disembodied voice, but the demand was ignored, and on it trilled.
A uniformed Wren leaned over the banister above and called, ‘Has anyone seen Standish?’
‘Just left for Blenheim,’ came a reply from the ground floor.
‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered, disappearing.
Nell’s captor took her along a corridor on the third floor, knocked on one of the doors and waited, holding her in his cool gaze.
‘Come in,’ a woman called, whereupon he ushered Nell through.
‘Mrs Spelman, ma’am,’ he said and withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Nell found herself in a small room, mainly taken up by a large desk covered in papers. A woman sat behind it with curly chestnut hair and a fresh complexion, wearing a heathery purple tweed suit. She looked as though she should have been striding over the moors with a spaniel at her heels, rather than being confined to an office overlooking the gun emplacements and barbed-wire barricades of Green Park.
‘Have a seat, Mrs Spelman.’ She waved at a chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ Nell said, determined not to be cowed.
‘I suppose not.’ The woman stared at her thoughtfully for what seemed like an age, flipping a pencil between her fingers.
‘Who are you?’ Nell asked eventually. ‘And how do you know my name?’
‘I’m Jane Coker, and it’s my job to know things,’ the woman said, with a chilly smile. ‘I work for the Ministry of Information. It’s a pretty poor show if we don’t know what’s afoot. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Nell replied stiffly. ‘I should like to know why I’ve been brought here in such a peremptory manner.’ Nerves were making her pompous.
‘All right, then.’ Miss Coker – she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring – dropped the pencil and said briskly, ‘We think you should go home. There’s nothing you can do to help your husband and, frankly, you’re a distraction. There’s a chance you could jeopardise an extremely delicate operation.’
A flash of fear shot through Nell’s stomach. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
Miss Coker gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Don’t act the innocent, it’s a waste of everyone’s time. Miss Carmichael has told us all about you.’
So Hetta had been taking a professional interest in her, rather than merely a friendly one. What a fool Nell had been! ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ she said now, trying to recover some dignity. ‘If Arthur were released from prison, I’d go home this minute. Couldn’t you look into the case, Miss Coker?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a police matter. Beyond my jurisdiction.’
Nell leaned forward. ‘My husband would never go to a Fascist meeting in the normal run of things. He’s half Jewish, for heaven’s sake! It’s my belief he’d stumbled across some conspiracy and was trying to find out more. Either that, or he’s been framed. Maybe these people wanted to get him out of the way because he’d found out what they were up to and wouldn’t play along. Surely it’s worth investigating?’
‘But we are investigating, Mrs Spelman, and we’ll get along better without your interference. We don’t need anyone blundering in at Park West.’ Her tone had become icy. ‘This is a warning. If you don’t cooperate, you could end up in prison, too. For quite some time.’
Nell’s palms prickled with sweat. She had nothing to lose. ‘I think Arthur was trying to find out about Handle.’
Miss Coker glanced at her sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Handle,’ Nell repeated, lowering her voice. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’
Miss Coker got up and closed the office door. Then she walked back, leant against the edge of her desk and folded her arms. ‘Tell me everything you know about Operation Handle. And don’t even think about playing games.’
So Nell explained the whole story, starting from that first meeting with Lord Winthrop the morning she’d been out shooting rabbits, and ending with what Bill Talbot had told her the evening before. ‘He said I was to go to the meeting but not say anything about Handle. So they could see what they thought of me. Whoever “they” are.’
‘And you’re positive this
man Winthrop used that word on the telephone? You couldn’t have misheard?’
‘Positive. “Handle’s definitely going ahead,” that’s what he said.’
‘Wait here.’ Miss Coker disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a tall, grey-haired man whom she didn’t introduce. ‘Go through it all again, if you would,’ she commanded Nell, ‘just as you told me.’
They both listened intently as she spoke, their eyes fixed on her face. At the end of her account, the man said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Spelman.’ He nodded at Miss Coker. ‘All right, then. If you think so,’ and left the room.
‘You should play along,’ she told Nell. ‘Go to the meeting, do exactly as Talbot said and let us know if he contacts you. One thing, though. What makes you think you’ll have any more luck with these people than your husband?’
‘Because I know how their minds work. I can say the things they want to hear as though I mean them.’ Nell had been subjected to her father’s litany of resentment often enough: the sour refrain as he searched for someone to blame for his lack of success, and settled on the whole Jewish race as a scapegoat.
‘I certainly hope so,’ Miss Coker replied. ‘For all our sakes.’
Chapter Seventeen
Oxfordshire, January 2022
Ellie hadn’t wanted to find out any more about Eleanor Spelman. ‘If you’d seen the things she was saying!’ she’d told Dan. ‘I mean, maybe anti-Semitism was widespread back then, but even so.’
Yet here they were, driving in a rental car towards Oxford. ‘Seems crazy not to,’ Dan had said, ‘since we’re here. Besides, it’s my birthday so I get to choose. You can come along for the ride.’ He slowed down, indicating as they took the off-ramp. ‘Don’t you want to see some more of England?’