The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Last Sunday, in an act of churlish defiance, Elsie had not attended church, but had instead done her washing, leaving Monday to become her day of rest. Her muted sense of satisfaction and mild victory over the scourge of housewifery had been dulled by the fact that it had gone completely unnoticed. She had rather expected a visit from the vicar, one of the neighbours or perhaps Mrs McKay or another church busybody. But nobody came and Elsie’s defiance twisted into stubbornness; she had made up her mind that she wouldn’t be attending church this coming Sunday, either. What did it all matter, anyway? She couldn’t work on a Sunday but soldiers could fight, could be lost, could be killed on a Sunday.

  Pushing small haloes of smoke into the air through her plump red lips, Elsie realised with horror that history was repeating itself: she was turning into her mother, a timid little Victorian creature who had married on the eve of the Great War. Elsie, born a drearily predictable nine months after the Armistice, imagined her mother passing those four long years, rocking in her wicker chair by the fire, eternally knitting scarves and socks for the men in the trenches. Doing her bit.

  The brace around Elsie’s heart tightened. It wouldn’t be like that for her. It wasn’t already; it was very different. She turned and there it was, on the mantelpiece. It had arrived last week when she had been in the kitchen boiling the whites. The door knocker had resounded and she’d dithered about whether or not to answer it, convinced that it had been the Kleeneze man back again with his wretched set of dusters and brushes. But it hadn’t been him, it had been the telegraph boy. All that she could now recall of him was the red piping on his navy uniform cuff as he handed over the telegram and had asked if there was a reply. No reply. What could she have said? Thank you, War Office, for informing me that my husband is missing, presumed killed on war service.

  Elsie held the cigarette to her lips perfunctorily, but breathed around it. She had guessed, of course, even before the telegram had arrived. ‘Tens of Thousands Safely Home Already,’ the Daily Express headline had shouted from their edition of 31st May. ‘Many more coming by day and night.’ But Laurie did not come. The follow-up letter, as promised in the telegram, had revealed nothing more. And that was the last that she had heard. Missing presumed killed.

  She let the burning cigarette fall to the floor, turned back inside and shut the door.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Elsie closed her wide blue eyes, trying to unclench her heart; but it refused. The pathetic helplessness of her situation echoed in the repetitive metallic striking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each strike gaily announcing the death of more of her life.

  The first thing that her eyes settled upon, when she finally reopened them, was the ceramic sign hanging just above the stove. The Devil makes work for idle hands, it warned. To people visiting Bramley Cottage it was simply a light-hearted wall adornment, but to Elsie it represented so much more than that. She wasn’t silly, she had been able to see the look in her mother-in-law’s eyes when she had unwrapped it on her last birthday; it was a look that had unquestionably summarised the wifely expectations placed on Elsie. It had been a warning to uphold her marriage vows, no matter what.

  Elsie calmly stood, pulled the sign from its nail, carried it into the hallway and smashed it into the circular glass face of the grandfather clock. Shards of glass and pottery crashed noisily to her feet. She drew a quick breath and smiled.

  The ticking had stopped and finally, the clamp on Elsie’s heart loosened.

  She knew what she had to do next.

  Passers-by—predominantly men in dark suits and bowler hats, carrying briefcases—slowed their pace to an admiring gait, taking in the long rainbow-like line of colour that snaked its way below the tall grey building on the corner of Kingsway and Aldwych in central London.

  Elsie, sighing noisily, side-stepped from her position in the queue and collided directly with a plump man, whose bulbous eyes had been riveted to a group of giggling girls just up in front of her.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss,’ he apologised, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing his forehead as he stumbled on his way.

  ‘Men,’ the woman directly in front of Elsie said, turning with a smile. ‘So incredibly primitive.’ She pursed her lips and exaggeratedly placed a hand on her tilted hip. ‘Of course, that’s why I dressed to impress.’ She tossed her head back and her perfect red lips parted to release a gravelly burst of laughter.

  ‘Me too,’ Elsie admitted with a smile. She had worn her best outfit: a simple mustard skirt, worn just below the knee with matching boxy jacket with padded shoulders. It was complemented by black leather gloves and a veiled hat, which was set at a fashionable slant. ‘Though I rather think we weren’t the only ones,’ Elsie added, casting her eyes back and forth over the line of women.

  ‘What are you here for?’ the woman asked, in her plummy voice.

  ‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Elsie stated, a sheen of pride coating her answer.

  ‘Oh, me too.’

  Elsie suddenly saw herself in a detached view, as if from the ogling stare of one of the men across the street. She was so terribly ordinary. And, in comparison with the others around her, so terribly young. The woman in front of her, dressed in a similar outfit but in a powder blue, must have been in her early thirties. And that group of women in front her—how old were they? Certainly older than she was.

  ‘Violet,’ the woman introduced, extending her black-gloved hand to meet Elsie’s. ‘Violet Christmas. Absurd name—you don’t need to say.’

  ‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ Elsie said with a grin. ‘I’m Elsie—Elsie Danby…’ She faltered at her error. ‘Elsie Finch,’ she corrected, her face hot with a wash of embarrassment and shame at forgetting.

  Violet nodded her head in understanding. ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘My husband—Laurie—he’s missing in action. Lost at Dunkirk.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Violet said. ‘And now you want to do your bit for your country?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Elsie mumbled. She looked up and met Violet’s dark, almond eyes. ‘Actually, no. I’m doing it entirely for selfish reasons: I’m dying a terrible death of boredom at home and I can’t stand it for a moment longer.’

  Violet laughed another of her throaty laughs. ‘Well, good for you, Elsie Finch. Perhaps it’s wise, though, to keep that little admission quiet when you get inside.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, it’ll be King, country and Empire when I get in there. Plus a heavy dose of this’ – she fluttered her eyelashes—‘and maybe even a bit of this’ – she puffed her chest into the air like a boastful pigeon.

  ‘Elsie Finch, I rather like you,’ Violet declared. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Elsie said, taking the proffered cigarette.

  At last, the queue began to move and, embracing the comfort of the cigarette between her lips, Elsie began to relax again. ‘What about you?’ she enquired. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘God, no,’ Violet answered flatly. ‘Never. The very idea of one man for all of eternity doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  A slight movement in the queue and the horn beep from an appreciative man in an Austin Seven placed a chasm in the conversation until Violet asked, ‘Are you local?’

  ‘Sussex, middle of nowhere. You?’

  ‘Surrey, middle of nowhere.’

  The pair laughed as the line began to shift again, more women passing through the glass double-doors of the Air Ministry. Violet was next. She took Elsie’s gloved hand in hers. ‘Well, good luck with your war, Elsie Finch. I do hope that our paths will cross again.’

  Elsie watched as Violet disappeared inside the building, ever so slightly mesmerised by her.

  ‘WAAF interview?’ a short, stout man in a tight-fitting suit barked, as he pulled open one of the doors.

  Elsie nodded and was directed across a large open lobby where she witnessed men and women in a greater array of smart military uniforms than she even kne
w existed. A sudden flush of something that she couldn’t place—was it adrenalin or excitement?—made her stride boldly through the humming swarms of blue-grey officers, as if she had as much of a right to be there as did they.

  As she had been told, Elsie made her way to the bottom of a wide mahogany staircase. She placed a hand on the newel post and gazed upwards, longingly. Up there, the next few weeks, months or, God forbid, years, would be decided. Taking a deep breath, she continued with her brisk, confident march up to the first floor, where she found herself standing in a wide corridor that seemed endless in either direction. Smart men and women, filled with purpose, crossed the corridor between heavy-set doors, carrying with them an assortment of paperwork. Elsie watched in awe, wondering at the nature and content of what they clutched so guardedly to their chests. Her envious trance, straying into the dangerous territory of her imagination, snapped when she heard her own name being called.

  ‘Mrs Finch?’ the woman repeated in a well-spoken voice. She was standing with her back pressed to an open doorway, her stance impatient.

  Elsie smiled and headed over to her, offering her hand. ‘Elsie Finch.’

  ‘Assistant Section Officer Conan Doyle,’ the woman responded, fleetingly shaking Elsie’s hand.

  Elsie took a step back and stared at the woman. She must have been in her late twenties and was dressed impeccably in full Air Force blue uniform. She wore a tight black tie and a peaked cap with a shiny badge that Elsie recognised as being the emblem of the Royal Air Force. ‘Conan Doyle? Any relation to Arthur? He’s my favourite author…’

  ‘He’s my father,’ she cut in abruptly. Her hand gesture that Elsie should enter the room promptly dissolved the conversation.

  It took a moment for Elsie’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. A thin veil of cigarette smoke lingered around the two green desk lamps that failed to light much of the large room. The combination of the lighting, the oak panelled walls and the dark block-wood floor made for an oppressive, heavy feeling, which Elsie thought might have been part and parcel of the interview process. Overlooking all the proceedings was a stern portrait of the King.

  ‘Sit,’ a hoarse voice instructed from behind the light.

  Elsie crept into the room towards the desk. She tentatively sat in the chair and strained her eyes to see who was seated in front of her. It was two women in WAAF uniform, both in their late fifties with sharp, harsh features. Neither woman reciprocated Elsie’s smile. Now Miss Conan Doyle joined them.

  ‘Mrs Finch,’ the woman in the centre said, to which Elsie nodded in response. ‘You’re twenty years old.’

  Elsie paused, waiting for a question to follow but when none came, she mumbled, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  The three women stared at her.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ Elsie asked, as politely as she could manage.

  ‘Do you think your age and inexperience is a problem?’ This time it was the lady on the left who spoke. A whiskery spinster, short and plump with a mass of dark curls licking out from underneath her cap.

  Elsie gritted her teeth, trying not to react to whatever point this woman thought that she was making. Elsie smiled, taking a meaningful glance at Miss Conan Doyle, who could only have been a handful of years older than she was. ‘No, I rather think my age gives me the tenacity and stamina required in the Forces.’

  None of the three women responded.

  A short pause and then the lady in the middle spoke again: ‘Do you want to be a cook or an MT driver? I doubt those qualities you mention will help in either case.’

  ‘I… I don’t know. Anything will do.’

  The lady on the left couldn’t hide her incredulity. ‘Anything, you say?’

  Elsie felt a skin of crimson rising from her chest to her cheeks. This wasn’t going at all well. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. ‘Anything to help the war effort, I meant to say. King and country. I want to do my bit,’ she murmured.

  ‘Very admirable,’ the woman in the centre said, without a drop of sincerity. ‘Your husband, Lawrence—he’s missing in action.’

  Another non-question, Elsie thought. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Presumed dead.’

  ‘And it’s only been a few short weeks. Do you think it wise for a woman in your position…’ A knock at the door stopped her in mid-flow. ‘Come in,’ she barked impatiently.

  The door opened and a petite young lady with round glasses in neat civilian clothing poked her head inside. ‘So sorry to interrupt,’ she grimaced. ‘Group Captain Wainwright sent me down. Could Miss Conan Doyle take a quick look at something?’ she asked, stepping fully into the room and holding aloft a sheet of paper.

  ‘Make it quick,’ the lady in the centre answered.

  Elsie watched with interest as the young thing darted in like a frightened kitten and thrust the paper at Miss Conan Doyle. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Elsie heard her whisper.

  Miss Conan Doyle raised a pair of glasses, which had been dangling at her chest, and squinted at what she was reading. ‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof,’ she read. ‘Well, my German isn’t great, but I think it means ‘I understand only train station’,’ she suggested.

  The young girl took the paper and grimaced again. ‘Yes, that was what we worked out upstairs. But…but what does it mean?’

  Miss Conan Doyle lowered her glasses. ‘Damned if I know. Code, maybe?’

  The gruff lady in the centre had heard enough. ‘Thank you,’ she dismissed.

  The young girl scuttled away from the desk.

  ‘It means that what you’re saying is unclear and hasn’t been understood,’ Elsie said, turning to the girl just as she reached the door.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof means that something is clear as mud. Double-Dutch. However you like to say it,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s an idiom.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the young girl said, glancing uncertainly between Elsie and the three WAAF women. ‘Thank you.’ She left the room and closed the door.

  Elsie turned back to face the three indomitable women and wondered what she had missed, for there had been a sudden shift in each of their demeanours—something she struggled to put her finger on, as she looked at each of their faces in turn. There was a lightening to their eyes—possibly even a flicker of a smile on the face of Miss Conan Doyle. ‘What’s happened?’ Elsie asked.

  ‘You speak German!’ Miss Conan Doyle exclaimed, with an overly dramatic laugh.

  ‘And how did you come by this skill, Mrs Finch?’ enquired the whiskery one on the left, sitting forward in her seat, as if engulfed in sheer desperation to hear the answer.

  ‘My grandfather. My mother’s father was from Hamburg. I spent almost every summer out there with his sisters,’ Elsie answered. ‘Is this something that might help me as a cook or an MT driver, then?’ Her barbed question, with an accompanying syrupy smile, was received by the three women in all innocence. But Elsie had known about the WAAFs being recruited for Special Duties before she had come to the interview; it was her secret weapon.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Finch,’ began the lady in the centre, suddenly speaking as though they were old friends. ‘I’ve got something much more suited to your talents. Billy, pass her the papers.’

  With a smile, Miss Conan Doyle slid a bunch of clipped papers across the desk towards Elsie. ‘It’s the Official Secrets Act. Please sign it before we proceed.’

  Elsie took the silver fountain pen being eagerly thrust towards her by the whiskery spinster. She looked up, held the pen to her mouth and proceeded to pretend to read the wording on the sheets.

  Minutes passed.

  Finally, Elsie squiggled her name at the bottom of the paper, having not read a word of it. She carefully placed the pen down on the paperwork.

  ‘Welcome to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Miss Conan Doyle chanted.

  Chapter Three

  26th June 1940, Bramley Cottage, Nutley, East Sussex

  The silence of Bramley Cottage was no longer a trouble to El
sie. In fact, she had come to embrace it—enjoy it, even. For her, it was now like the quiet preparatory pause before some great celebration; it was something that could now be savoured because of its brevity. Soon—very soon—she would be leaving here, a prospect that set her stomach fluttering with excitement. A spear point of white sunlight pierced through the kitchen door and, Elsie noted wryly, illuminated her small suitcase, as though it were an important prop in a London stage play.

  She sipped her tea and smiled.

  She was ready to go. Almost. There was just the small matter of letting people know that tomorrow she would be leaving, with no idea of when she might return. She had told Mrs McKay when she had come yesterday to enquire as to why Elsie had not been at church for the last two weeks, and whether she had given further consideration to opening her gardens to help the war effort. ‘We must all play our part, dear Elsie,’ she had added emphatically.

  ‘Indeed I shall be playing my part, Mrs McKay,’ Elsie had responded. ‘I shall be leaving on important war work, the nature of which I cannot divulge owing to the fact that I have signed the Official Secrets Act.’

  Mrs McKay, displaying all the appearances of someone freshly kicked in the stomach, had finished her tea and had quietly left Bramley Cottage. Word of Elsie’s departure would, of course by now, have spread insidiously through the small village.

  Elsie stood from the kitchen table, drank the last mouthful of tea, then checked herself in the hallway mirror. She was dressed plainly in a white cotton dress with small red roses and a minimal amount of make-up. Her father disapproved of such ‘face paint’ and she was already going to have a battle on her hands; there was little point exacerbating the problem.