by Betty Walker
She had been thankful when Bertie had left, nearly two months ago now, heading back to his regiment after a mercifully short leave of absence, during which time he had mostly been drunk, though not too drunk to insist on his conjugal rights. She still didn’t know where he was stationed, as he hadn’t been allowed to say where the regiment would be sent next, except to hint that it might be overseas.
Her husband would be back again one day though, unless the enemy finally did for Bertie Baxter. It was wrong even to think it, but some nights Hazel wondered what it would be like to get that telegram and know herself to be a free woman.
Pushing aside such unloving and downright wicked thoughts, Hazel carried the meagre breakfast of one fried egg on buttered toast across to the kitchen table, and put it down with a smile in front of her son.
‘There you go, Charlie,’ she said, doing her best to sound cheerful, though such a small breakfast was hardly enough to keep a strapping young lad going until lunchtime. ‘Get that down you. Then it’s off to school, you hear me?’
Charlie made a face. ‘I don’t want to go to school.’
She sighed, sitting down opposite him and pouring herself a cup of weak tea. She wasn’t hungry this morning, which was a blessing, as there were no more eggs anyway. But if their best layer, Henny Penny, could be persuaded to do her duty for King and Country, that would only be a temporary problem.
Thank goodness for having their own hens! There were folk in the big cities who hadn’t seen a real egg in months …
‘Come on, love, we’ve talked about this.’
Charlie stuck out his chin, only fifteen years old but already every bit as stubborn as his dad. ‘I want a proper job, Mum. All them sums and writing tests. What’s the point of them?’
‘So that you can do better than your dad,’ she replied sharply, then regretted it when she saw unhappiness cloud his eyes. She bit her lip, then leant forward and squeezed his hand. ‘Everyone has to go to school, love. Not much longer, eh? Then we can talk about jobs. Maybe the war will be over soon, and your dad can help you find work.’
‘As a brickie?’ Contempt thickened his voice. ‘No thanks.’
Bertie had been a brickie and a labourer before the war.
‘It’s a living,’ she told him defensively.
‘You call this living? There’s got to be something better than this.’ Charlie shovelled some of his egg into his mouth, then glanced about the small kitchen with its faded cabinets and dusty plasterwork, shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, that’s why Dad signed up so quickly. To get away from … all this.’
She flushed, knowing he had been about to say ‘get away from you,’ and had changed his mind to spare her feelings.
Only a few days ago, during a blazing row about their lack of money, Charlie had demanded to know why she had married his dad in the first place.
‘It’s not like you were in love with him,’ her son had said bitingly.
Hazel had wanted to deny that, but couldn’t.
She and Bertie had married for the oldest of reasons, and the worst too, she often felt.
Bertie Baxter had been a handsome brute as a lad of seventeen, and boldly charming where other boys – like George Cotterill, with whom she’d been good friends since they first started at the village school together – had been shy and tongue-tied. He had turned her head with his unflagging interest, even though her father, then a teacher at the local school, had declared Bertie ‘beneath’ her and forbidden their friendship.
Only just sixteen herself, Hazel had made a mistake in walking out with Bertie, and an even stupider mistake when she gave in to Bertie’s endless wheedling to let him have his way with her.
Her parents had been appalled when she admitted to being several months gone, earning her the strap from her usually mild father.
Bertie had finally agreed to marry her, under pressure from his stern grandfather, who had once been a village smith and was still the size of a barn door. For a while, Hazel had been happy, with a new babe in her arms and a good-looking, hard-working husband to care for. But within a few years her husband had turned sour, perhaps resentful that his easy, carefree days were over, and that was when the drinking had started, and with it the debts they could ill afford to repay.
There had been other women too, of course.
But Hazel, listening to her mother’s advice, had decided to turn a blind eye to these strayings. ‘You’re his wife – he’ll always come back in the end,’ her mum had told her. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’
For once, though, Mum had not been right.
Things between her and Bertie had gone from bad to worse, and a few years back, he had moved from yelling at her in one of his drunken rows to slapping her. The first time it had happened, she had retreated in tearful silence, and Bertie had been shocked and apologetic the next day, promising it would never happen again. But, of course, it had. Often enough for his violent outbursts to have become almost normal.
‘Come on, I’ll walk with you to the crossroads,’ she told her son as he pushed his empty plate away, then unfastened her pinny and hung it up behind the kitchen door. ‘Put your shoes and coat on. Hurry now, or you’ll be late for the bus.’
Hazel took her bicycle from the shed, and wheeled it to the garden gate.
Together, they set off at a walk from the row of cottages for the crossroads, where they usually parted – her son heading for the bus stop a mile further on, and Hazel cycling the rest of the way to work.
Except that today would be different.
She had been offered work at Porthcurno’s Eastern House, where telegraph cables came ashore from America and around the globe, and where something connected with the war effort had been going on for months. It was all supposed to be hush-hush, but everybody in Porthcurno had known something unusual was happening as soon as strangers turned up and began digging into the cliff.
In this tiny Cornish fishing port, nobody could keep a secret for long. Or so it had seemed to Hazel before the outbreak of war in 1939.
Since the war though, something had changed in the very air of the place. For a start, the old communications station had been reorganised early on, with trucks of military personnel arriving in droves, along with fresh-faced trainees from the country’s top universities. Sentry posts and barbed wire fences had gone up first, meaning access to most beaches and cliff paths was impossible, and Ministry of Defence signs had appeared throughout the valley, mysteriously announcing, ‘Strictly No Entry By Order’. All winter, explosives had been laid and tunnels dug into the cliff to house the new equipment and personnel, because it was considered safer underground from an aerial attack. ‘A shortcut to the pub’ had been the official reason given for the sudden excavations, as though the locals would swallow such a tall tale!
But nobody said a word.
Whatever was happening at the old communications station, it was clearly connected to the war, and that meant top secret and not to be discussed.
Still, the idea that this sleepy little village was now a key bombing target for their enemies kept Hazel nervous in her bed at night. And she was not alone in her fears. These days, people went to work with grim faces, and came home tight-lipped.
To an outsider, Porthcurno might seem idyllic. But London – and indeed the whole of Britain – relied on this remote spot on the Cornish coast for the most vital weapon of all in this very modern war.
‘Information,’ she whispered under her breath.
‘Sorry?’ Charlie looked at her quizzically. They had reached the crossroads, where he knelt to retie one of his trailing shoelaces. ‘What did you say, Mum?’
She managed a breezy smile. ‘Nothing, love.’ She kissed her son on the cheek, and nudged him away down the lane towards town. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Have a good day!’ he called back over his shoulder.
Hazel nodded, raising a hand. Only when he had turned away did she allow her smile to falter and slip. She waited un
til her son was out of sight before getting on her bicycle and cycling slowly towards Porthcurno.
She had not yet discussed her new job with Charlie. The truth was, she was afraid. Afraid of messing up, making a fool of herself, and possibly damaging the war effort. And she was afraid it would be beyond her skills. She had taken on occasional secretarial work for a local attorney once Charlie was old enough to go to school, until Mr Beddowes had retired. But nothing skilled.
Since then, she had done odd jobs here and there, whatever she could get, to make a little extra money towards the housekeeping. Bertie was notoriously mean with his wages, preferring to spend them in the pub or on a card game than hand them over to her. Now that he was away fighting, there were too many nights when the cupboard was bare, and she and Charlie had to dine on bread and cheese, if they had it.
Then last week, after she’d put a note in the local Post Office asking for work, George Cotterill had come to the house after dark, looking like an undertaker in his dark suit and hat, and offered her a job.
‘It’s at the communications station,’ he’d said, rather unnecessarily, for George more or less ran the place. ‘Eastern House. We’re short-handed at the moment, and could do with someone like you.’
Hazel had been amazed. ‘Like me?’
Whatever could he mean?
‘Someone discreet,’ George had said softly. ‘Someone who can keep a secret.’
Hazel had blushed, for she knew what he was referring to.
One time, when they were both teenagers, she and George Cotterill had exchanged an ill-judged kiss after a local wedding. Ill-judged, because he’d been dating her older sister at the time, not because Hazel hadn’t liked him. She had always liked George. But then she and Bertie had started seeing each other, and after that it was too late to go back. Not even when her sister had moved away for work, never to return to Porthcurno.
One kiss, that was all.
But ever since that night, Hazel had averted her gaze whenever she passed George in the street, and had never spoken a word to anyone about that strange, exhilarating moment.
She had accepted the job, no questions asked. They needed the extra money.
But she was worried.
Unlike her, George Cotterill had never married, and she had often lain awake at night wondering how different her life might have been if only …
If only.
Two of the stupidest, most wasteful words in the English language.
‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans,’ her gran used to say, quoting an old saying she loved, ‘there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.’
She clearly remembered swimming in the River Camel with George and some other kids during the school holidays when they were all about ten years old. George had seemed so clever, telling her how river currents and estuaries worked, while the other boys skimmed stones or splashed about in the shallows, making the girls shriek in horrified delight and run back to the bank.
She had even had a little crush on George around that time, she recalled with a blush. But it had never seemed like the right moment to say anything.
All the same, she hadn’t waited for George to be free when they were teenagers. She had married Bertie instead, and given birth to dear Charlie, the most precious person in the world to her. And she was still married to Bertie, for better or worse.
Those were the only things that mattered now.
She freewheeled for a while, bees buzzing about her in the sunshine. Then she began to climb a steep hill, pedalling hard until she had to get off and walk. In a few minutes, she was within sight of the guardhouse beside the new fence of barbed wire that encircled the valley, keeping locals out.
‘Good morning, Miss.’
She showed her ID card, feeling a little awkward under the curious gaze of the guard, but was allowed through after answering a few questions.
She walked on through the heavily fortified grounds and began the climb up to Eastern House. Once beautifully white, the familiar façade was now camouflaged, draped with green and brown netting to blend into its background. She barely recognised it. And it was so busy. There were soldiers everywhere, more than she had ever seen in one place in her life, smoking in the sunlight, marching to and fro, or shouting coarsely to one another as they unloaded equipment from covered trucks.
Several men paused to stare at her as she passed. One even pushed back his cap and wolf-whistled, giving a loud guffaw when she turned to glare at him. Blessed with a curvaceous figure, she often garnered male attention. But fear of antagonising Bertie had made her wary of even looking sideways at a man, and though her husband was away, she still found it uncomfortable to deal with.
Eventually, she came to the entrance to the new communications station, hidden safe underground behind Eastern House, where the enemy’s bombs could not reach it.
As the hill steepened for the last few hundred yards, Hazel wheeled her bike more slowly, studying the gated fence of barbed wire curiously. She had never been inside Eastern House before or its newly fortified compound.
There was a soldier lolling on the gate, rifle slung over his shoulder, not much older than her Charlie. He straightened, watching as she approached.
Hazel’s nerves worsened.
She didn’t know the soldier and he didn’t look very friendly.
Yet why should he?
Ahead of her, the Atlantic glittered in a long blue swathe stretching as far as the eye could see. Birds sang in the hedgerows, and in the fields butterflies danced among the bright gorse bushes. It seemed impossible in this remote spot, only a short distance from Land’s End, that a careless word could cost the lives of thousands. But she knew it to be true. For if Porthcurno Station was compromised, the information channelled through it every day would be too. Messages between Britain and its allies, for example.
A droning noise made her stop dead.
Both she and the guard looked up at the same time, squinting into the sunshine. A small plane was high overhead, light glinting off metallic wings. As it turned, banking further west, she saw the familiar red, white and blue round insignia of the RAF.
One of ours, she thought, with a quick stab of relief.
‘You can’t come in here,’ the guard said lazily as she reached the gate, eyeing her legs with vague interest. He had a Welsh accent. ‘So off you pop, before you land yourself in hot water.’
Hazel didn’t like the way he was looking at her. ‘I was told to report here this morning,’ she said firmly, secretly wishing she could just turn around and cycle home. But they needed the money. And she certainly wasn’t going to leave before she had seen George Cotterill. Otherwise he would think she had bottled it.
‘Oh aye?’ He lit a cigarette, his manner unhurried. ‘What’s your business, then? Come to mop out the ablutions, is it?’
‘I’m to report directly to Mr Cotterill.’ Hazel spoke with the no-nonsense tone she used with Charlie when he was being difficult, and saw from the way the soldier’s eyes widened that it was having an effect. Either that, or George’s name had been enough to put the fear of God in him. ‘So you’d better let me in straightaway. Or I promise it’ll be you in hot water, not me.’
The young man took a quick puff of his cigarette, studying her more closely, then nodded and unlocked the gate. ‘In that case …’ He gave her an unexpected wink as she walked past him, still pushing her bicycle. ‘Mr Cotterill, eh? Should have said so at the beginning. George has got taste, I’ll give him that.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
But he had already turned away, saluting the men who were emerging from the station entrance. Two were soldiers of senior rank, from the pips on their shoulders, and the third was George Cotterill himself.
George was talking, but stopped when he saw her. ‘Mrs Baxter,’ he said at once, and came forward to greet her. They shook hands awkwardly over the bicycle. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’m a little busy right now. But if you leave your
bicycle here and head that way, someone will show you to my office. Then we can discuss your duties.’
‘Whatever you say,’ she replied shyly.
George left her and escorted the two soldiers through the gate, where they headed towards a parked vehicle, all talking in low voices.
Catching the young soldier’s eye, Hazel stiffened at his insolent smile and turned away. She propped her bicycle against the wall and headed in the direction George had indicated.
She only had to wait about ten minutes in his private office, standing in front of George’s desk because nobody had told her to sit, before the door opened and he came in, smiling, seeming to fill the space with his tall frame.
‘Hazel,’ he said, then corrected himself with a wry smile, ‘I mean, Mrs Baxter … I’m very pleased you chose to take the job.’
‘Well, it’s good money,’ she said bluntly.
She saw an odd flicker in his eyes, and knew her too-quick response had offended him. But that had to be the way of it. Best George understood from the start that she was not here for him. That what had happened between them as kids was ancient history, and this now … This was purely business.
She was a married woman, after all.
‘Of course,’ he said, as though she had spoken those last words aloud. ‘Your husband came home in the spring, didn’t he?’
‘Just for a few days, on official leave.’ She felt awkward, unwilling to discuss Bertie with him. It felt too much like disloyalty. ‘He’s gone back now,’ she said starkly, and some devil prompted her to add, ‘to do his duty.’
‘Quite right too.’ George sat down behind his desk and gestured her to sit too. ‘If it were up to me, I’d gladly join a regiment and do my bit too. But I suffer from a mild hearing problem, called tinnitus, so they turned me away at the recruiting office. Perforated my eardrum as a boy, you see, and my hearing never really recovered.’ He shuffled some papers on his desk, clearly embarrassed by having to reveal this failing. ‘Luckily, I’m good at paperwork. Organising things. This is the kind of war work I can do.’
Hazel could see that she had nettled him. And she felt guilty. She hadn’t known about his hearing problem.