by Daisy Wood
The grille was secured by a padlock on the other side. Very slowly, steadying herself against the wall, Nell reached into her pocket with one hand, drew out the Beretta and released the safety catch with her thumb. She lined up the shot, then turned her face away and squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening, ricocheting around the shaft. When she looked again, the padlock had disintegrated into a mess of twisted metal. She pushed open the grille and climbed through, dropping down into what turned out to be a storeroom. And there she crouched for a moment, taking great shuddering breaths. But there was no time to lose. Arthur’s watch on the chain around her neck showed her it was almost a quarter to nine. She had to find Bill Talbot in the engineers’ workshop and stop him switching on the Ayrton light. Leaping down the stairs, she ran out of the clock tower and along the colonnade as the quarter bells rang out. Somebody called after her, but she didn’t slow down, keeping one hand on the gun in her pocket. Had anyone tried to stop her, she would have used it.
The door to the engineers’ workshop was locked. What if Talbot were somewhere else? She took out Arthur’s keys and sifted through them to find the right one, her breath coming hard and fast. If anyone were inside, they might hear her, but there was no helping that. She unlocked the door, clicked the safety catch off the Beretta and stepped through. Talbot was standing in front of the control centre. He stared at her in disbelief.
She had to make sure. ‘You’re about to switch on the Ayrton light, aren’t you?’ she asked breathlessly, holding the gun by her side.
‘That’s right.’ Talbot leaned forward and flicked a switch on the bank of controls. ‘I just have, see? And now I’m going to deal with you, because you’re starting to get on my nerves.’
As he walked towards her, she saw the glint of a knife blade in his hand. Before she had time to think, she had raised the gun and shot him squarely in the chest. He dropped like a stone, face forward onto the tiled floor. She stood for a moment, looking at his body and the blood already seeping underneath it, feeling nothing. Then she stepped over him and ran to the control panel, searching the rows of switches and lamps. One tiny red bulb was blinking steadily, and the switch beneath it was labelled with the initials AL. Another flick from her and the Ayrton light had been extinguished – simple as that.
She made the gun safe and put it back in her pocket. The job wasn’t over yet, though: she had to find Cooke with the searchlight. He was the backup, Lord Winthrop had said. Where exactly could he be? Not on Westminster Bridge, nor Speaker’s Green; those places were too public and confined. The only possible place one could park a searchlight was Parliament Square. She checked her watch. It was ten to nine. Time was running out; the pilot must be close.
One of the custodians called out as she raced towards the exit and made as if to follow her. Ignoring him, she showed the guard her pass, gabbling something about an emergency, and then broke free, hurtling out into the night. Now, at least, no one could see her, and no one seemed to be following her, either. She looked about, one hand on her heaving chest, then dashed across the road, hardly bothering to pause for traffic. A taxi swerved, its horn blaring, but her eyes were fixed on a finger of light that swung drunkenly across the sky. She flashed her torch towards it. A gap had been cut in the barbed wire enclosing Parliament Square, and a lorry had been parked on the grass in the middle, towing a searchlight mounted on a mobile chassis. By the time Nell had reached it, the beam had come to rest on the clock face, towering hundreds of feet into the sky behind her. Cooke was standing on the bed of the lorry, his hands on a control wheel at the base of the light.
‘Get back!’ he shouted when he saw her. ‘You’re too late.’
‘I have a gun,’ she called. ‘Turn off the searchlight or I’ll shoot.’
But he only turned, leapt down from the other side of the lorry and disappeared into the night.
Nell climbed onto the vehicle and wrenched at the searchlight’s controls with all the strength she had left. The wheel wouldn’t budge an inch, no matter how hard she hauled, sobbing with fear and frustration, and she could see no way of extinguishing the beam. There was only one other option. Shoving the gun back in her pocket, she ran to the lorry’s cab, opened the door and climbed in. The keys were still in the ignition. Her foot on the clutch, her heart hammering, she attempted to start the engine – which promptly stalled. She’d forgotten to double de-clutch. Frantically, she tried to remember her ambulance-driving days. At last she managed to get the motor running, wrenched off the handbrake and set the lorry lurching over the grass, the searchlight swaying behind. She had to take it away, that was all she knew, and there wasn’t a second to lose. Pulling out into the road, she found herself driving against the direction of traffic but ploughed on regardless, holding her breath, her palms damp with sweat. A bus mounted the pavement to avoid her, and someone screamed. Now she fell in behind a taxi rounding the corner of the square and realised with a surge of relief that she must be nearing St James’s Park. She’d turned the headlights full on and kept her fist on the lorry’s horn as she bucketed down Birdcage Walk, waiting until she could cut across to the park on her right, praying other drivers would keep out of her way. She had passed Storey’s Gate at the corner and the lodge beside it, so now only a line of trees separated the park from the road. Spotting a gap between them, she veered out, ignoring the scream of metal and skidding tyres, and jolted through the undergrowth. Branches cracked and splintered against the windscreen, but when she glanced in the mirror, she saw the searchlight was still attached.
And then with an almighty crash, the lorry came to an abrupt halt – so abrupt that she was thrown forward. A stab of pain made her gasp, and she realised it was because her watch had been caught between her chest and the steering wheel. Pulling it free, she saw firstly that the face had cracked across, and secondly, that the time was dead on nine o’clock. And now Big Ben was ringing out the hour. She had to get out; there wasn’t a second to waste. Yet the door handle rattled uselessly when she attempted to open it. Throwing herself against the door, she only succeeded in bruising her shoulder. It wouldn’t budge. When she wound down the window, she was confronted by a massive tree trunk and a shower of twigs falling around her feet. Sliding along the seat, she tried the passenger door, too, with the same result. She had managed to wedge the lorry fast between trees. Perhaps she could shoot her way out: make a hole in the windscreen, smash it somehow and climb through. When she felt for the Beretta, however, her pocket was empty. The gun must have fallen out when she climbed onto the lorry.
All she could do was wait. Wait to be rescued, or wait to die.
‘Look up!’ Hetta’s voice rang in her ear. ‘Find a star. I’m coming to fetch you.’
Nell gazed up at the sky. She had done what she’d set out to do; done her bit, and it had been enough. Everyone she had ever loved was beside her and she wasn’t afraid. She felt Alice’s soft cheek against hers, Arthur’s arm around her shoulder, her mother’s tentative embrace. All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well, she thought, at peace now. And then the night became darker still as the stars were blotted out by the aeroplane diving towards her, its engine screaming, and the string of bombs that tumbled from its hold, falling straight and true towards the searchlight’s glare.
After that: nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Westchester County/New York, January 2022
Ellie arrived back in New York on the early-morning flight. She had told Dan not to worry about meeting her – it seemed too soon to make that kind of assumption – yet there he was, unshaven and yawning, waiting for her at the barrier. She’d worried on the plane that he might have had second thoughts during the week they’d been apart, that England might have cast some kind of temporary spell over them both that would dissipate once they were back home, but as soon as she’d caught sight of him, she’d known the magic was still there. Dan had wanted to know everything Ellie had found out about her grandmother – she’d told
him over the phone that she’d finally unravelled the mystery in the few days they’d been apart – but he would have to wait. Alice should be the first to hear. So after a quick shower and some strong coffee, Ellie had headed out to the nursing home with a bag full of precious memories from England. Brenda Macdonald had said she had no children to pass the snaps on to, so Ellie might as well have them since they wouldn’t mean much to anyone else. And of course, she must take Nell’s sketchbook; that belonged to Alice by rights.
‘I know these children,’ Alice said now, gazing at the photographs. ‘I used to think I’d made them up: my imaginary friends. But look, they’re real.’ She turned to Ellie with a radiant smile. ‘I’m one of the gang, aren’t I?’
‘Completely. Brenda said you were their mascot.’
‘Which one is Brenda again?’ Alice asked. Ellie pointed her out. ‘And she really remembers my mother? She’s got all of her marbles, then. But you said she uses a walking frame?’ Ellie nodded. ‘I don’t need mine anymore,’ her mother went on, with great satisfaction. ‘I shall even be managing without a stick before long.’
‘Mom, it’s not a competition. You’d like Brenda, she’s a kindred spirit. I have her phone number and she says you’re to call whenever you feel like it.’
‘Maybe.’ Alice frowned. ‘Now tell me again about this trouble my mother got mixed up in. I’m not sure I’ve got it straight.’
‘There was a plot to bomb Big Ben during the Second World War,’ Ellie began. ‘Your father stumbled across it but the police didn’t believe him, so he tried to investigate by himself. And then—’ She hesitated. ‘And then Nell took over where he’d left off and saved the day.’ Going into detail was confusing, and confusion frightened Alice.
‘She saved the clock tower, single-handed,’ her mother repeated. ‘That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. She was a heroine, as brave as she was beautiful.’
‘As brave as she was beautiful.’ Alice sighed, reaching for the sketchbook. ‘And these wonderful drawings! My mother must have loved me very much, don’t you think?’
‘Of course,’ Ellie replied. ‘Everyone did. The evacuees, and your grandparents, too. Anyone can see that in the pictures.’
‘But then my father took me away.’ Alice found the photograph of herself as a teenager with Arthur. ‘Because he loved me, too. I suppose he was terrified of losing me, although I didn’t realise it then. He suffocated me, always wanting to know what I was doing and who I was doing it with. It drove me mad. Poor man, he must have been so lonely. Even after he married Mavis.’ She closed the sketchbook. ‘Now, tell me what you made of Gillian.’
‘We had a rocky start,’ Ellie replied, ‘but she grew on me. Sounds like she didn’t have the happiest of childhoods, either. I think it was hard for her when you left home.’
Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Because she told me so. She said she felt abandoned.’
‘Maybe she did.’ Alice folded her hands together. ‘That never occurred to me. Of course, I was in love for the first time and too excited about making a new life in America to think about anyone else. My father married Mavis when I was around Gillian’s age then – actually, I was a couple of years older.’ She sighed. ‘I should have understood how she would feel. Too late now, I suppose.’
Ellie took her mother’s hand. ‘Aunt Gillian has breast cancer, Mom. She’s going through a tough time.’
‘All right, then,’ Alice said reluctantly. ‘I suppose we’ll have to do that thing that everyone’s up to these days: skipping or swooshing, or whatever it’s called. You know, on the computer.’
‘You mean Skype? Or Zoom?’ Ellie laughed in disbelief. ‘Sure, that would be great. I can bring in my laptop and we’ll fix up a call.’
‘It would be interesting to see what she looks like.’
‘She looks like a bird with a broken wing,’ Ellie replied, without thinking.
‘And does she know my mother was a wartime heroine?’ Alice asked, perking up. ‘Have you told her the whole story?’
Ellie had. They’d had a long chat over a farewell dinner in Gillian’s house on Ellie’s last night, together with Max and Nathan, and looked through the photograph album again. Gillian had mainly wanted to talk about her father, though.
‘Not being able to protect his wife must have tormented him,’ she’d said. ‘I can understand why he didn’t want to mention her name. Yet she was always with us, this perfect ghost in the background that my mother could never live up to, no matter how hard she tried. I’m not making excuses for her but life wasn’t easy for my mum, either.’
Ellie had decided not to tell Alice about the money from Arthur’s will that might or might not be coming to her in due course. With Gillian’s help, she’d submitted a claim to the Treasury before she’d left the UK, making the deadline by the skin of her teeth, so they would just have to wait and see.
In a few weeks’ time, Gillian would be having an operation to remove her tumour. Still, at least now she had told her children what was happening, so Ellie had gone home with a clear conscience. She had become fond of her aunt in a restrained, undemonstrative way that seemed appropriately English.
She and her mother looked out of the window for a while, and then Alice said, ‘You know the picnic in my dream, the one my mother brought? With the cheese triangles and sandwiches with the crust cut off? Well, it was Mavis who made that picnic, I remember it now, for my twelfth birthday. Gillian wasn’t born then. I’d invited a couple of friends from school and we climbed up the hill and flew a kite. Mavis had baked a cake, too.’ Her eyes were far away. ‘I suppose she did her best, given what she was.’
‘A butcher’s daughter,’ Ellie teased.
‘I might have got that wrong,’ Alice admitted. ‘We certainly never had much meat in the house. Do you know, meat rationing didn’t end until I was fourteen?’
‘You might have mentioned it once or twice.’ Ellie gathered her coat. ‘Mom, I have to go or I’ll be late for supper. But I’ll bring in my laptop tomorrow and we can speak to Gillian.’
She and Dan were eating at the Italian place on the corner where she’d been a regular for years, only now it felt like her first visit, because they were there together.
‘My sister’s been asking me a load of questions about the trip,’ Dan told her as they were waiting for their spaghetti, ‘but I didn’t say anything about us. I thought I’d leave that delicate task to you. If you’re still OK with me being around, that is.’
She squeezed his hand, smiling. ‘I think so. On balance.’
He poured her a glass of red wine. ‘So, now you can tell me everything you learned about your grandmother after I went home? The whole story. Come on, shoot.’
After Dan had left, Ellie had visited the National Archives in Kew to find out what she could about the woman Brenda Macdonald had mentioned: Jane Coker. And there, among a sheaf of dusty files, she had struck gold. Miss Coker (she’d never married), had been a brilliant and high-ranking civil servant, working for MI5 both during and after the war. During her retirement, she had written an account of several sensitive operations with which she’d been involved, to be released after her death. The information had been kept secret for thirty years, much to Brenda Macdonald’s frustration, and only recently declassified.
Operation Handel, Ellie read, had been one of the most audacious conspiracies of the Second World War, intended to strike a blow at the very heart of the nation. Winston Churchill had been well aware of the vulnerability of the Houses of Parliament, lying between three railway stations and so easily found by flying up the Thames. The Palace of Westminster had suffered bomb damage already in 1940 but that had been incidental, rather than targeted. Precision bombing wasn’t thought possible at that stage of the war, yet a new aeroplane was in development at Hatfield aerodrome that was capable of far greater accuracy: the Mosquito. It was lighter, faster and far more deadly than t
he lumbering Hurricanes and Spitfires. Although its existence wasn’t widely known, a certain Lord Lionel Winthrop had come to hear of it. He was a Fascist sympathiser who’d travelled widely in Germany after the First World War, met Adolf Hitler on several occasions and admired him greatly. Violently anti-Semitic, Winthrop was convinced Great Britain would become a stronger nation if Hitler were in charge. Following the death of his only son in a tragic incident of friendly fire, early in the war, His Lordship’s distrust of the British government had turned to hatred. Under cover of running the local Home Guard regiment, he was in touch with other Fifth Columnists, preparing to smooth the way for an inevitable German invasion. They were all deeply frustrated by the Luftwaffe’s inability to win the Battle of Britain, so Winthrop had come up with the plan to destroy Big Ben on New Year’s Eve. It would delight the Führer and dismay the sheep-like British, gathering around their wirelesses to hear those famous chimes announce the news.
Winthrop had assembled a cell of various disgruntled activists, one of whom was a test pilot at Hatfield. Both men had been present at trials of the Mosquito prototype in late December 1940, and taken account of security measures around the hangar in which it was stored. The pilot was popular around the aerodrome – ‘a blokey sort of chap’ – and on New Year’s Eve he had plied the security guards with whisky and bribed them to let him take out the prototype that night for a spin. The Mosquito was probably the only plane in Britain able to fly low enough, in the hands of a skilful pilot, to negotiate the barrage-balloon cables along the Thames and drop a bomb on a specific target with any degree of accuracy. Arrangements had been made for the clock tower to be illuminated as the plane approached by switching on the Ayrton light above the belfry or, failing that, shining a searchlight beam on the clock face.