by Daisy Wood
‘Got your brick?’ Miss Pardue asked her, but she said she would pick one up along the way. She was spoilt for choice; they were constantly stumbling over rubble and her torch beam revealed craters in the pavement.
Miss Pardue had brought leaflets and delegated the brick-throwing to Nell because of her sciatica. ‘I can’t raise my arm above the shoulder,’ she’d said, ‘otherwise I’d have loved to join in.’
Nell thought of Arthur’s father, Henry, so anxious never to do or say anything that might cause offence. She imagined him in 1915, hurrying to sweep up the glass from his smashed shop windows before anyone could witness his shame. Miss Pardue walked ahead, occasionally darting into a telephone kiosk or bus shelter; a flutter of white paper in the dark and she’d return, breathing fast. ‘It’s easy,’ she whispered, giggling. ‘I can’t imagine how your husband managed to get himself picked up.’
There weren’t many people around. A pub door opened, letting out a gust of smoky air and conversation, and a man walked by, the tip of his cigarette glowing. Trams clattered up and down the Mile End Road and the odd bus roared past, its shrouded headlights reduced to narrow slits.
When they had been walking for fifteen minutes or so, Miss Pardue pulled her into a nearby doorway. ‘It’s just there, on the corner,’ she whispered, blinking furiously as she shone her torch up the road. A fleck of spittle landed on Nell’s cheek, making her recoil. ‘Take a look at the lie of the land. I’ll keep a lookout here. If anyone comes, I’ll cough.’
Nell went ahead on her own. So far, she had done nothing wrong. She waited for a tram to pass by, shining her torch at the window of Grossman and Sons. ‘Tailors and alteration experts since 1920’, proclaimed a sign on the door. ‘Let Grossman’s dress you and cut your tailoring bills by half’. The glass was criss-crossed with brown tape; behind it, she could make out a tailor’s dummy, dressed in a half-finished dinner jacket tacked together with long white stitches, a tape measure draped around its neck. A giant reel of thread had been fashioned from a wooden cable drum wound with tinsel, against which was propped a pair of silver-painted cardboard scissors. There were pine cones scattered on the floor, and fake snow that she guessed was Lux soap flakes.
Lowering the torch, she strolled around the corner into a side road lined with dilapidated terraced houses, their doors opening onto the street. She tripped over an empty bottle ready for collection by the milkman the next morning, sending it rolling into the gutter. Soon, she found the inevitable broken-down wall, and kicked over the rubble until a suitable missile emerged from the pile. Tucking it inside her siren suit, she walked back to Miss Pardue.
‘This should do,’ she said, drawing back her lapel to reveal the brick.
Miss Pardue thrust a folded paper into her hand. ‘Don’t forget to leave the leaflet behind.’ Then she added in an entirely different voice, ‘Goodness, Gladys, I’ve a terrible stitch. Do let me catch my breath.’
‘All right, ladies?’ An approaching warden flashed his torch briefly into their faces.
‘Fine, thank you,’ Nell replied, putting her arm behind her back. ‘Just making our way home.’
‘Well, don’t hang about.’ He nodded and strolled past them towards the tube station. Nell let out her breath, wondering whether he’d noticed her rooting through the debris, but he didn’t glance back.
‘That was a close one.’ Miss Pardue let out a giggle, blinking furiously.
Anyone might loom out of the dark at the wrong moment and catch Nell with a brick in one hand and A Last Appeal to Reason by Adolf Hitler, in the other. She saw herself up before the magistrate for vandalism – but of course, she would have been charged with a more serious crime. Maybe Hetta’s suggestion she might end up sharing a cell with Arthur wasn’t so laughable after all.
‘After I’ve done the deed, we must split up,’ she said. ‘Pretend we don’t know each other, it’ll be safer.’
Miss Pardue nodded, not quite as full of bravado now. Nell headed into the dark, a sense of resolution overcoming the sick dread in her stomach. A safe distance away, she dropped the brick in the gutter and stuffed the leaflet in her bag. When she had reached Grossman’s, she turned down the side street, picked up a milk bottle from the nearest doorstep and paused for a moment, watching and listening for trams or wardens or Miss Pardue’s warning cough. Then she hurled the bottle with all her strength at the wall beside the shop, where it shattered with a satisfying crash.
‘’Ere! What’s going on?’ Somewhere above her head, a window had been pulled up and a voice was shouting into the darkness.
Nell was already hurrying down the road. She broke into a run with her torch trained on the white line at the edge of the pavement, heedless of the uneven ground, hissing only to Miss Pardue that she had been spotted, and somebody might be after her. She ran away from what she had so nearly done, not stopping until she had reached the station and joined the stream of people heading underground, some with bedding rolled under their arms. Their tired faces, at once so commonplace and heroic, looked at her with indifference as she struggled to catch her breath. Spotting a couple of policemen standing by the ticket barrier, she dropped her eyes, her heart racing. Yet she was able to walk past them and down to the platform unchallenged, still carrying her secret burden of guilt.
‘I’d say our little scheme was a success, wouldn’t you?’ Miss Pardue screwed up her eyes, blinking wildly. ‘There must have been glass everywhere, judging from the noise. Shame we couldn’t go back to inspect the damage.’
Bill Talbot glanced at them both with what seemed to Nell like contempt. ‘So now you’re partners in crime. Who’d have thought it?’
Miss Pardue laughed uncertainly. ‘Sabotage is actually rather fun.’ She had made up her sallow cheeks with rouge, which added to her general air of hysteria.
Nell hadn’t been expecting to see her again so soon, but when she arrived at the pub, there was Eunice Pardue, sporting a pink tam-o’-shanter with matching scarf and drinking a glass of stout opposite Bill Talbot. At first, Nell had been relieved to have an ally in dealing with the man. That feeling had soon turned to frustration, however, because what could she say of any importance in front of Miss Pardue? She had no idea why Talbot had invited her; he seemed to take no more pleasure in her company than he did in Nell’s. Miss Pardue seemed desperate for his approval, suggesting other windows that might be smashed and other places where leaflets could be dropped. She was outlining a plan to daub graffiti on the door of a synagogue in Shoreditch (Nell guessed that task would be delegated to her) when Talbot interrupted.
‘That’s all amateur stuff. How’d you like to be involved in something really important? Think you’d be up to it?’
‘What, us?’ Miss Pardue asked.
‘We’d be honoured,’ Nell said quickly. ‘Wouldn’t we, Miss Pardue? Anything for the cause.’
‘It’s a high-profile job,’ Talbot said. ‘Your names would be noticed by our friends in high places. Might even be a medal in it for you both.’
Miss Pardue blushed and blinked, struck dumb. Nell’s palms prickled with excitement and dread. She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to control her nerves, and asked Talbot to tell them more.
‘Not here,’ he replied. ‘And not now. The less you know, the less you’ll be tempted to blab.’ His expression made her quail.
‘Oh, we wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone,’ Miss Pardue assured him.
‘But can you at least say when we’ll be needed?’ Nell asked. ‘I’ll be going away shortly, you see.’
‘New Year’s,’ he said. ‘So you won’t have to wait too long. Think you’ll be free?’
After they’d assured him they were – Miss Pardue had a tentative engagement, apparently, but nothing that couldn’t be rearranged – he said they were to meet in the pub at midday on New Year’s Eve itself, when he would tell them precisely what they’d have to do.
‘And is this—?’ Nell stopped, uncertain how to continue. ‘The plan, I mean,
is it—?’
‘Yes, it’s the big one.’ Talbot smiled, revealing a row of surprisingly small yellow teeth. ‘You’ve got what you wanted.’
Chapter Twenty
London, December 1940
‘Really, darling? I don’t understand,’ Rose said. ‘Why do you have to stay in London over Christmas? It seems very odd to me. Why can’t Arthur manage this business by himself?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Nell replied. ‘I’d love nothing more than to come home, you know that, but I simply have to stay in London for another week. Arthur’s been – called away. I can’t explain over the telephone, I’ll tell you when I see you. How’s Alice?’ She could hardly bear to ask.
‘Oh, she’s all right. Susan’s been a great help, I must say. But she’s missing her mother. Still, I suppose your husband needs you more than we do.’ Rose sounded so disappointed that Nell could hardly bear it.
‘I’ll see you in the new year, Ma, I promise,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being such a brick.’
There was a click as Rose replaced the receiver, followed by the dialling tone buzzing in Nell’s ear. She wrenched open the door of the telephone kiosk and stepped out into the grey gloom of a winter day. Christmas in Oxfordshire would have been impossible, even if she could have travelled by magic carpet instead of a fully-booked train; she couldn’t have borne to leave Alice again and Rose wouldn’t have let her go back to London a second time without the most tremendous fuss. There was no alternative but to stay put until the new year. She would do whatever was asked of her – she couldn’t begin to imagine what that might be – and go back to Millbury after the job was done. Arthur was right: there would be other Christmases.
The Palace of Westminster had an abandoned air. Parliament had gone into recess the week before and by now most of the maintenance, cleaning and catering staff had left. Hetta was deserting Nell, too. She was off to spend Christmas with friends in Scotland. The combination of danger and shared confidences over brandy and cigarettes on the roof had brought the two of them closer than Nell would have believed possible in such a short time. Hetta was unshockable; one could say absolutely anything and she wouldn’t flinch. Nell trusted her completely. After all, there seemed little point hiding anything from her when she knew so much of the story already. She was an ally at a time when Nell was in desperate need of one, and her courage made the dangerous, rackety life they were leading seem almost ordinary. Or manageable, at least.
They were having a farewell lunch together before Hetta left for the station. The canteen had been decorated with paperchains made out of newspaper and Dolly behind the counter wore a hat trimmed with tinsel, though her expression was as dour as usual. She slopped a portion of marbled pink corned-beef hash onto Nell’s plate and added a spoonful of tinned peas swimming in water. There was to be a grand Christmas lunch for the remaining staff the next day; clearly the kitchen staff were conserving their energy.
‘Grim, isn’t it?’ Hetta surveyed her meal. ‘Like someone’s insides, scraped off the pavement after a particularly nasty accident.’ She pushed her plate aside after a few mouthfuls and lit a cigarette. ‘So, you’re clear about everything?’
Nell nodded. Hetta had given her a Whitehall telephone number to ring in case of emergencies. She had to tell whoever answered that she had left her suitcase at Paddington Station, and wait for the reply: ‘The lockers there are so convenient.’ Then she would know it was safe to speak, and that her message would reach Miss Coker. The dialogue sounded like something out of a film, although no doubt she’d feel differently if she actually had a reason to say the phrase.
‘Anyway, I’ll be back by the weekend. And it does look as though Jerry’s giving us a few days off. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ Hetta gave Nell a shrewd look. ‘What’s on your mind?’
No one else was in earshot. ‘I just wish we knew who was behind the whole thing,’ Nell said. ‘I’m sure Talbot couldn’t have planned it, he hasn’t the authority. And why involve Eunice Pardue? She’s the proverbial leaky bucket.’
‘Let the Ministry lot worry about that,’ Hetta replied. ‘You don’t want to muddy the waters. Just stick to your part and let them get on with theirs.’
She was probably right, yet Nell’s thoughts kept circling back to Lord Winthrop. His interest in Arthur had led her husband to the flat in Park West, she was certain, and ultimately to his arrest. And then there had been the question of Winthrop’s meeting with Bill Talbot, and above all, what he had said on the telephone at Millbury Manor. She hoped Miss Coker had taken her suspicions seriously. But what if she had misheard? And what if those other events had been merely a series of coincidences?
‘Made any plans for tomorrow?’ Hetta asked, bringing her back to the present with a jolt.
‘Lunch here, which is bound to be a veritable feast.’ They laughed. ‘And then, later, the usual shift upstairs, I suppose. You never know, Jerry might surprise us.’
‘Not going to see your husband?’
Nell shook her head. ‘Visits have to be booked days ahead.’ She knew Arthur would have hated her to see him in jail; it would be the final humiliation. ‘I’ll drop off a card and present,’ she added. A small token, it would have to be, since her money had to last another week. Hetta had given her some knickers made out of parachute silk, but there was still the question of food and cigarettes. She had to marshal her resources.
After Hetta had gone, Nell resisted the temptation to fall into limbo. She walked to Victoria Station, finding a draper’s along the way, which was about to close, where she managed to buy Arthur a pair of socks entirely with clothing coupons. ‘Your husband will be glad of these,’ the shop assistant had said, wrapping them in brown paper, and Nell had resisted the urge to reply, ‘Yes, he’s probably cold in prison,’ just to see the expression on her face. It seemed wasteful to spend money on a card so, sitting on the underground train to Brixton, she wrote a cheery message on the back of a flattened cigarette packet and tucked it inside the parcel. The prison looked as forbidding as one might have expected. She shivered, looking up at the grim façade and imagining Arthur behind it. What kind of state could he be in? Not long, my darling, she promised. I’ll get you out of there.
After she had dropped off his modest present, she took the train to Green Park and wandered about for a while, past the Ritz and the ruined church, with pigeons nesting in its burnt rafters. The pavements were crowded with last-minute shoppers, although the few shops that were still open had meagre window displays; even the dressers at Fortnum & Mason had restricted themselves to hampers filled with pretend presents – cardboard boxes beneath the gay paper, Nell guessed – and pyramids of papier mâché fruit. To distract herself, she walked on to Leicester Square and bought a ticket to see Gone with the Wind. It was an extravagance but at least she could sit in the dark, safe and warm, until it was time for her vigil on the roof. It occurred to her, later, looking out over the sleeping city, that fire watching was the only responsibility she had for the next few days. Apart from that, she could please herself entirely, and she might as well, because there was no knowing when the chance would come again. So she got up early on Christmas morning and walked for miles along the river, up to Tower Bridge and beyond, as far as the docks, where roofless warehouses lay open to the sky and the skeletons of wharves cooled their blackened bones in the water. She had to witness the devastation, awful though it was. When Alice was older, she would bring her here and describe what she saw now, so that her daughter would know what the country had endured, and do her utmost to make sure it never happened again.
‘So how was it? Predictably gruesome?’ Hetta was back from Scotland, bearing slices of cake wrapped in greaseproof paper, a cooked pheasant and fresh supplies of brandy and cigarettes. They were sitting on one of the truckle beds, having a debrief.
‘Actually, the lunch was surprisingly good,’ Nell said. ‘Only mutton but it was jolly tender, with onion sauce and as many potatoes and carrots as one could want. And plen
ty of booze, too. Sherry to start and someone produced a bottle of whisky later, which certainly helped with the sing-song. And then we listened to the King.’
‘So did we. He didn’t make too bad a job of it, did he? Though I can’t imagine why they had to make him say “ready to resist”. It seemed almost cruel.’ They laughed. Poor King George, with his stammer and his speech impediment: the whole country must have been willing him through the Christmas address. ‘So who was there?’ Hetta went on. ‘Just you, the custodians and the Home Guard?’
‘Some WVS ladies came along, too. As a matter of fact, it was one of them who provided the whisky.’ Nell picked off a crumb of yellow paste and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Does this marzipan taste rather odd or is it just me?’
‘Sorry, I should have warned you. It’s a heady concoction of flour, marge and almond essence.’ Hetta passed over the hip flask. ‘Have a swig to cleanse your palate and tell me what else you’ve been up to.’
‘Not much. I walked about a lot, and I’ve seen Gone with the Wind three times and The Thief of Baghdad twice. Nothing to touch your celebrations.’
Hetta’s friends were very grand, from what Nell could make out. There had been twenty around the table for Christmas lunch, a hunt on Boxing Day and a shoot the day after that. There was going to be a ball for Hogmanay, too, featuring Scottish reels and men in kilts. ‘Don’t worry, I couldn’t possibly leave you in the lurch,’ Hetta had said. ‘New Year’s Eve is your moment of glory, isn’t it?’
Nell was already sick with nerves; waiting with nothing much to do only made the ordeal worse. Still, only a couple more days and then it would be over – one way or another. At that moment, the siren’s pulsing note started. ‘Here we go.’ Hetta scrambled to her feet. ‘The holidays are over.’
They’d already assembled a collection of sandbags, pumps and buckets to hand on the roof. Hetta was first up the metal staircase. ‘Looks like we’re going to be busy,’ she called down. The roaming searchlight beams picked up scores of enemy bombers streaming across the sky, their engines chugging steadily beneath the thunder of ack ack guns, and now they heard the gentle swoosh of falling incendiaries. Soon hundreds of those spitting magnesium flowers were blossoming in the dark, some extinguished only to pop up again close by, others fizzing steadily until their white hearts were swallowed up by tongues of yellow flame. It was a windy night and everywhere Nell looked, blazing rivers were flowing into one great sea of fire.