Windflower Wedding

‘Good man. Help you to sleep. And don’t worry, we aren’t trying to recruit you.’

‘Then why now?’ Keth tilted his glass.

‘Might as well tell you now as tomorrow or the next day. We knew of your request – to come back to UK, that is – and you wouldn’t have had a hope in hell if we hadn’t needed a specialist, so to speak. You’re familiar with Enigma.’ It was a statement.

‘Yes. It’s still something of a hit-and-miss thing – breaking their codes; well, breaking the naval codes.’

‘Exactly. That’s the whole crux of the matter. Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht codes are little problem, or so I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the naval codes – well, we can gather in their signals with no trouble at all. What is so annoying is that they chatter all over the Atlantic airwaves – especially the U-boats – and there’s damn-all we can do about it. Can’t break ’em.’

‘We can, sir, but most often it’s too late.’

‘Far too late for our convoys, yes. We’re losing one merchant ship in every four that crosses the Atlantic and it’s got to stop. It’s immoral!’

‘So I’m to be part of an operation that’s going to get hold of an Enigma machine the German Navy uses?’

‘Yes. But don’t get butterflies, Purvis.’

‘I’ve already got them and they’re wearing clogs!’

‘Then don’t worry – at least not too much – because we think we’ve managed to get hold of one. Don’t ask me how or where. One thing we don’t do is expect our radio operators over there to transmit long-winded messages. But the information this far is that one is ready for collecting. That’s why we need someone like you to check it over and bring it back. I take it you’d know what you were looking for?’

‘No. But I’m familiar with the ones their Army and Air Force use, so I reckon I’d spot anything different.’

‘Then that’s all we ask. Churchill would give a lot to break the U-boats’ codes. We can’t go on losing ships the way we are, nor the men who crew them.’

Keth agreed, then asked, ‘So you don’t know the exact location of the machine?’

‘Only approximately. Like I said, our wireless ops in the field don’t waste time on claptrap. They set up their sets, hook up their aerials and make their transmissions as fast as they can. The Krauts have got special detector units and they like getting hold of one of our men – or women. That’s why our lot don’t go round like Robin Hood and his Merry Men. They’re mostly loners. The fewer operators they know, the better. You’ll rely on your contact and trust him, or her. Your contact will tell you only as much as you need to know, so don’t ask questions, or names, because you won’t be told. I understand,’ the older man chuckled, ‘that you asked a lot of questions at Castle McLeish.’

‘I suppose I did, but I’m learning.’ Keth tilted his glass again. ‘Can I ask when I’ll be going?’

‘In about forty-eight hours.’

It was, Keth supposed, like going to have a tooth filled, only worse. He drained his glass then got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’m ready for bed now.’

‘Yes. Off with you. By the way, you don’t usually hit the bottle, do you?’

‘Hardly ever. But on this occasion, it has helped calm the butterflies. Good night, sir.’

‘’Night, Purvis.’ The elderly man watched him walk carefully to the door, relieved to find himself thinking that the young officer, inexperienced though he was, would fit the bill nicely. Strangely dark, he brooded. Black hair, black eyes. Gypsy blood, perhaps?

‘Purvis!’ he called.

‘Sir?’ Keth’s face reappeared round the door.

‘Any didicoy blood in you?’

‘No,’ Keth grinned. ‘My mother was a Pendennis. Cornish. They’re a dark people.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Didn’t take offence easily, either. And no matter what they’d said about him at Castle McLeish, he liked him. Purvis should do all right – as well as the next man, that was …

Grace Fielding was picking the last of the late-fruiting raspberries when a tall shadow fell down the rows. Without turning she said, ‘Hullo, Bas Sutton.’

‘Hi, Gracie. Marry me?’

She put down her basket and turned impatiently.

‘No, I won’t – thank you. And you always say that!’

‘Can you blame me when you always say no?’ He tilted her chin, then kissed her mouth.

‘And you can stop that in working hours!’ He always did it and in public, too! ‘Mr Catchpole’s going to catch you one day and you’ll be in trouble!’

‘No I won’t. I’ve just seen him – given him some tobacco. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t sitting on his apple box right now, puffing away without a care in the world.’

‘You’re devious, Bas Sutton, and shameless.’ She clasped her arms round his neck, offering her mouth because even if Mr Catchpole were not sitting on his box, smoking contentedly, the raspberry canes hid them. And she did like it when he kissed her, and she wanted nothing more than to say yes, she would marry him; would have said it, except for just one thing. Her sort and Bas Sutton’s sort didn’t mix. Not that she was ashamed of her ordinariness. She was what she was because of it and she loved her parents and her grandfather. She even loved Rochdale, though not quite as much as Rowangarth.

Rowangarth. Bas was sprung from the Rowangarth Suttons – the Garth Suttons, Mr Catchpole called them. His grandfather Edward Sutton had been born at Rowangarth, even though he married into Pendenys. And the Pendenys Suttons had the brass, she had learned, and one day Bas would inherit that great house – or was it a castle? – simply because his Uncle Nathan, who owned it now, had no children and in the natural order of things, the buck would stop at Sebastian Sutton – or so Bas once said.

But even if Bas refused Pendenys, he’d be rich in his own right because one day he would inherit one of the most prosperous and prestigious studs in Kentucky, while Gracie Fielding lived in a red-brick council house and would inherit nothing except her mother’s engagement ring. And the silver-plated teapot that had come to her from a maiden aunt.

‘What are you thinking about? You were staring at that weather cock as if you expected it to take off.’

‘I – oh, I was thinking it’s time for Mr Catchpole’s tea so you’d better kiss me just once more, then you can stay here and finish picking this row till I call you. And don’t squash them. They’re for the house, for dessert tonight, and Tilda Tewk doesn’t like squashy fruit!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He kissed her gently, then whispered, ‘I love you, Gracie.’

He always told her he loved her because one day she would let slip her guard and say she loved him too. One day. And when it happened, he would throw his cap in the air, climb to the top of Holdenby Pike and shout it out to the whole Riding!

‘I’m sure you do, Bas Sutton,’ she said primly. ‘But in the meantime get on with picking those rasps!’

‘You’re not interested in the candies I’ve brought you, or the silk stockings or the lipstick, then?’

‘Pick!’ she ordered, then laughing she left him to find Jack Catchpole, who was puffing contentedly on a well-filled pipe.

‘I’ve come to make the tea,’ she said. ‘Bas is carrying on with the picking.’

‘Ar. He’s a right grand lad, tha’ knows.’

‘I’m sure he is, but that’s between me and Bas, isn’t it, and nobody else!’

She stopped, horrified at her cheek, her daring, but Mr Catchpole continued with his contented puffing and his wheezy chuckling and didn’t take offence at all. Because he knew what the outcome of it all would be, despite the lass’s protestations. He’d said as much to Lily.

‘Mark my words, missus, young Bas isn’t going to take no for an answer. Things alus happens in threes and there’ll be three weddings round these parts, mark my words if there isn’t.’

And in the meantime, may heaven bless and protect GIs who brought tins of tobacco every time they came courting his land girl!

‘Make sure it runs to three mugs, Gracie lass,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And make sure I get the strongest!’

Life on an mid-September afternoon could be very pleasant, be danged if it couldn’t – even if there was a war on!

5

Her watch over, Leading Wren Lyndis Carmichael scanned the letterboard beside the door at Hellas House. Everyone did it. It was automatic on entering quarters.

She reached for the one addressed to Daisy, recognizing Keth’s writing and the Censor’s red stamp. She would put it in Daisy’s top drawer with the one that came yesterday – a kind of welcome back after her leave.

It was only then she saw the letter bearing her own name, and a bright orange 20-cents Kenyan stamp. It had taken almost three weeks to arrive. Sea mail, of course. Very few letters came by air now.

She closed the door of Cabin 4A behind her, placing the letters on the chest of drawers. The midday meal was being served; she would read her own letter when she had eaten because it was from her father and the first since he had written telling her of her mother’s death – the woman she had thought was her mother, that was.

She glanced round the small, empty cabin. She missed Daisy. It was almost a year since a woebegone Wren in an ill-fitting uniform and flush-faced from a raging temperature came to Cabin 4A.

A lot had happened in that time. They became close friends, and shared runs ashore with Drew Sutton when his minesweeper docked in Liverpool. Lyn tried not to think about Drew Sutton now, because she had fallen crazily in love with him and ached for him to love her.

And so he would have, she thought despairingly, had not Kitty Sutton arrived from America. It had been a love-at-first-sight job for them both – or so Daisy had said on one of the rare occasions on which she now mentioned her brother.

It had been that, all right. Love, and everything else! Drew and Kitty spent that same night together and in the morning they were engaged. That was what hurt, Lyn acknowledged. Them sleeping together, because she had practically offered herself on a plate, only to be gently turned down by Drew Sutton. As if he were waiting for Kitty to come along, she thought, and amusing himself with Lyn Carmichael meantime, damn fool she had been for letting him.

She lifted her chin and bit on her lip. She no longer cried just to think of Drew, and Drew kissing Kitty and making love to Kitty. Not outwardly, that was. Her tears were gone because she had no more left to cry; only those inside her that hurt like hell; tears that didn’t leave her eyelids swollen and her nose red, but which writhed through her to stick in a hard knot in her throat and refuse to be shed.

She let go a deep sigh, then made her reluctant way to the mess. After early watch, kept-warm dinners were served and kept-warm dinners offered hard peas and gravy dried leathery. And it was the same with the custard, spooned over a sugarless pudding. Leathery, like the gravy she thought miserably, and at this moment she wanted to be miserable because a letter had come from her father and she didn’t want to open it.

Nor would she, she thought defiantly, taking a kept-warm plate from the serving hatch. She would not open the letter until Daisy came back from leave; pretend it had arrived only that morning. And then, because Daisy knew all about what had gone on in Kenya, and before Kenya, reading what her father had written wouldn’t seem so bad.

She speared a chunk of meat on the end of her fork, looking at it distastefully.

‘Roll on my leave,’ she said out loud to no one in particular. Roll on October when she would collect her travel warrant and her leave pass, and a seven-day ration card, and go to stay with Auntie Blod in Llangollen. At least in Llangollen there would be no chance of accidentally meeting Drew Sutton – with Kitty.

She began to mull over the idea of volunteering for overseas service and knew at once she would never do it; knew that she lived daily in the hope of seeing Drew, even with Kitty, because she loved him that much.

She would always love him.

Tatiana Sutton left the Underground at Knightsbridge and turned left into Brompton Road, thinking with pleasure of the rabbit, already skinned, and the pheasant, already plucked and wrapped in newspapers, in her leather bag. Daisy’s father had given them and Daisy’s mother prepared them, sending with them her very best love to Sparrow. And not only meat enough for four meals, but two large brown eggs given by Gracie, fresh from the nest only that morning and not weeks old like the rationed shop eggs Sparrow had to break into a cup and sniff suspiciously before using.

Sparrow would be pleased too with the bunch of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums sent with Julia’s love, and the grave instructions to take care of herself now that the nights were drawing in, and to keep warm.

Dear Sparrow. So full of love and caring and cosseting. She had made life bearable again, and when the war was over and she had to return to Denniston House, she would miss Sparrow a lot.

She smiled as she crossed the road into Montpelier Mews, once upon a time the stables belonging to the big houses in the square. The little white house with its red tiled floors and shining brass doorknobs and handles was home to her now and Sparrow her best-loved person – apart from Tim, that was. It shamed her, sometimes, that if asked to place her right hand on the Bible and state who was most precious to her, she would in all conscience have to answer that it was Sparrow, hurt though her mother would be to hear it.

‘I’m home,’ she called, banging the outer and inner doors behind her. ‘Have you missed me?’

‘I’ll miss the peace and quiet now that you’re back. Are those flowers for me?’

‘You know they are. Aunt Julia picked them herself. She sends love and says you are to look after yourself.’

‘And is the dear lady well?’

‘She is.’

‘And happy?’

‘Very happy, Sparrow, and chasing around the parish doing her vicar’s wife bit and looking after Bas, who’s on leave for a couple of days.’

‘Your Aunt Julia should have had children of her own,’ Sparrow sighed, ‘but she left it over late. I suppose, now you’re back, I’d better make a pot of tea.’

Truth known, she had been waiting this hour past to make one and would have, were it not wasteful of the tea ration to use a precious spoonful for one person only, when that same spoonful could provide tea for two.

‘Yes, please. You put the kettle on whilst I unpack my gifts, food gifts! I tell you, Sparrow, you and I will be eating like lords this week!’

‘Hm. Well, I hope the food was honestly got, and not black market.’

‘It was – honestly got, I mean. Daisy’s father said he was sorry he couldn’t supply the butter to roast the pheasant in. And did any letters come whilst I was away and did Uncle Igor phone?’

‘No letters and no phone call – leastways, not from your uncle. But our Joannie rang to ask if you’d be busy on Tuesday night and I told her you wouldn’t be.’

‘But I’m doing escort duty with Sam from the convalescent home. We’re going up West to see The Dancing Years.’

‘She knows that. What she rang for was to see if you could manage an extra one. She thought the music might cheer him up. He’s at the same convalescent home as Sam, and waiting his turn to go for treatment.’

‘And is he –?’ There was no need to finish the sentence; no need to say the word.

‘Yes. Like all the others and in need of a kind word and a smile. Those smiles mean a lot, Joannie said. I’ll ring her back when we’ve had our cuppa and tell her you don’t mind taking one extra.’

‘No trouble at all, Sparrow.’

‘You’re sure, now, ’cos what I didn’t tell you is that he’s not only got burns – this lad got blinded as well.’

‘Hell!’ She shuddered, covering her face with her hands.

‘You don’t have to take him if it’s going to upset you.’

‘But of course I will. I want to. It was just that it doesn’t seem fair, does it?’

‘Life never is, girl.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. And I’ll manage all right. Sam will give me a hand, tell Joannie.’

‘You’re a good soul, Tatiana Sutton. You’ll get your reward in heaven.’

‘I’d rather have it here on earth. I’d swap all that heaven nonsense just to have ten minutes with Tim; say a proper goodbye.’

‘What do you mean – “heaven nonsense”? Blasphemous, that is!’

‘Well, I don’t believe in heaven and sometimes I don’t believe in God either – only in Jesus,’ she added hastily.

‘Well! I’m surprised at you! And what would your mother think to hear you say that?’

‘Nothing, because I wouldn’t say it in front of her.’

‘And you’d best not say it in front of me again either! Do I make myself plain?’

‘Yes, Sparrow, you do. And I won’t say it again if you’ll promise not to go on about it and try to convert me.’

‘Convert you? Now would I do that, and you so bitter inside that you can’t see the wood for the trees? Come here and let’s you and me have a cuddle because Sparrow understands. She really does.’

‘I know you do, and I’m sorry if I upset you,’ Tatiana whispered, hugging her close. ‘And I ought to be ashamed, shouldn’t I? At least I’m not injured, nor blind.’

‘No, girl, you aren’t.’ Sparrow shuddered even to think of that beautiful face burned and blistered and those big, brown eyes never to see again. ‘And that’s something to be thankful to God for, ’cos it’s all in His hands, and by the time you’re as old as I am you’ll have come to realize it, I hope.’

‘And how old are you, Sparrow?’ She didn’t want to talk about God.

‘As old as my tongue and a bit older than my teeth! So are you going to pour that tea before it’s stewed to ruination, and give me the news from Yorkshire?’ She had never been to Holdenby; probably never would, but that didn’t prevent her feeling a part of Rowangarth.

And Tatiana said she was, then whispered again that she was sorry, because not for anything would she upset Sparrow, who must be at least seventy-five.

Keth shook the hand of a colonel from Army Intelligence, who did not offer his name but asked him, pleasantly enough, to sit down and make himself comfortable.

‘So! The MO and the dental officer have given you the all clear; have you made a will?’

‘Yes.’ Talk of such things made him uneasy. Wills were for old people, he had always thought. ‘When I was first commissioned, I took care of that.’

‘And your next of kin is your mother?’

‘Yes.’ Mention of next of kin gave him the same feeling.

‘Just a precaution. Nothing sinister, but in view of the fact you’ll be under some slight risk …’

‘Slight!’ Keth jerked.

‘You’re having second thoughts? Because now’s the time to say so …’

‘No second thoughts. I was told there would be conditions and I accepted them. But don’t think I shall enjoy going, because I won’t! So does that make me a coward?’

‘No. I wouldn’t give much chance for the safety of any of our operatives who had no fear. Nor would I believe them if they said as much. And a man who admits fear, but still goes ahead with the job is far from being a coward.’

‘I’m a mathematician, sir. There’s not one iota of derring-do in my entire body.’

‘Then be glad of it. It’s the careful ones who make it home every time. But you aren’t a trained operator, as such. We’ve given you only enough knowledge to help you survive. The less you know, the better. We’ll put you ashore, you’ll be met and taken to a safe house. You’ll wait there until you hear that what you have gone to collect will be delivered to you.

‘Then you’ll hang on to it – study it all you can within the bounds of safety – and keep your head down until we can have you picked up. It will depend on weather conditions, and suchlike. Either the submarine that will take you out will bring you back, or we’ll send a Lysander in.’

‘And I’m definitely going in by submarine. No jumps?’

‘No parachuting. According to your records, you wouldn’t survive another jump!’

‘You could be right, sir.’ Keth managed a smile; one of relief rather than pleasure. ‘It’s an experience I’d rather not dwell on. The sea route sounds a lot safer.’

‘It is safe. There’s a submarine flotilla not five miles from here – the fifteenth. They’ve done a fair bit of toing and froing for us in the past. We’ve been in touch with their navigating officer about tides and things. We want a flowing tide; one that will wash away any evidence like footsteps – allow the dinghy to get as far inshore as possible. Provided the Met boys give us the okay weatherwise, you’ll be on your way within hours and back within a couple of weeks. Then you’ll completely forget your little errand to France.’

Little errand? Typical, that was, when just to think of it made his teeth water, Keth brooded.

‘I’ll be happy to – forget it, I mean.’

‘You’ll be in all sorts of trouble if you don’t! Anyway, good luck, Purvis. Get yourself over to Room 22. Your papers are ready – and all you need to know about Gaston Martin. Read them over and over. Think yourself into his identity. He was born in a little place near Lyons, which is in unoccupied France. You won’t be going anywhere near there, so you’re unlikely to run into anyone who might have known him. His family probably have been told that he’s missing, believed killed in action.

‘If anything happens, though, make for the unoccupied sector. You’ll be safe enough there. This far, the Krauts have respected their boundaries and left them alone.’

‘Vichy France, you mean, sir? And what constitutes anything?’

‘Anything going wrong. You can get to the Pyrenees from unoccupied territory, and over into Spain. Or you’ll be told by Room 22 where you can get help. In one of the Marseilles brothels, for instance, the madam can be relied upon.’

‘Brothel?’

‘Yes. Places where men can come and go without being noticed over much. Don’t look so holier-than-thou, man. There is a war on, don’t forget, but you can ask all the questions you want of the Room 22 people. They’ll be rigging you out with clothes and all you need. Ask a lot of questions. What may seem trivial might just stand you in good stead if anything were to go a bit wrong – which it shouldn’t.’

‘No, sir. A straightforward pick-up.’

‘Absolutely.’ The colonel rose to his feet, holding out his hand, wishing Keth good luck, assuring him that if he kept his ears open and his eyes down, the entire operation should go like clockwork.

Keth pushed back his chair, put on his cap, then saluted and left the room, hoping with all his thudding heart that the colonel knew what he was talking about.

Clockwork. He would say it over and over again. It would be his good-luck word. The submarine boys would get him there and someone would get him out. With the package. And he would want to know more about that package and about what he would do when he stood up to the ankles in sea water and the submarine lads were getting the hell out of it!

He thought about the last war and men who were given no choice but to crawl over the tops of trenches into No Man’s Land through barbed wire and uncharted minefields, to face the machine gunners. His thoughts went back to a churchyard in Hampshire; to the grave of the man who had gone over the top many times. And in that moment he felt a strange, fatalistic calm and very near to Dickon Purvis, his father, who, if there really was a hereafter, would be looking down tonight on his son. And understanding.

‘Well, that’s everybody been and gone – well, almost everybody,’ Gracie sighed. ‘Drew and Kitty, and Tatty. And Daisy goes tomorrow.’

‘You’ve forgotten young Keth. He hasn’t been. And what about Bas, then?’ Catchpole demanded.

‘The idiot!’ Bas had decided not to take the one Sunday train to York, saying he would rather stay a few hours longer, then hitch a lift back to his billet at the Army Air Corps base at Burtonwood. ‘He was absent without leave, you know. Someone was covering for him, but I hope he made it back all right. Stupid!’ Gracie fretted, pushing her hoe angrily into a very small weed. ‘One of these days he’ll run into the Snowdrops and his feet won’t touch the ground!’