Читать книгу Windflower Wedding - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 13

Keth stood unmoving in front of the mirror and, unmoving, Gaston Martin stared back. Those who kitted him out had done a good job, he grudgingly admitted. The clothes fitted; even the shoes and the socks, of which one pair was neatly darned, could have been worn by himself – times past, that was, when Keth Purvis wore darned socks and cheap, well-worn shoes.

Yet he must forget his other self. He was Gaston Martin now. In the pocket of his belt was five hundred francs in notes; in his trouser pockets a knife, a handful of small coins and a packet of Gauloises, even though he did not smoke. Inside one of the three very ordinary buttons on his jacket was a compass, though why a compass was necessary if he was to be taken to a safe house, hidden away, then returned to his point of departure, he had no idea.

In a brown paper carrier bag which he was told to get rid of at once if there was even the slightest risk of being picked up, were carefully packed valves and a small, heavy packet. Valves for wireless operators to replace broken ones – valves were notorious for their fragility, it seemed – and spares for the firing mechanisms of two automatic revolvers. Just to be carrying such things gave reality to his journey; a shivering awareness that began when he was checked and checked again for incriminating evidence by a man who could once have been a police detective.

No English brand names on any of his clothing; no London Tube tickets or bus tickets in his pockets or evidence that his underwear and handkerchiefs had been laundered in England. Laundrymarks were a big giveaway, the man said as he left, satisfied.

Keth dug a hand into his trouser pocket, bringing out the coins, placing them on the window-ledge to familiarize himself with their values. The coins made sense to his mathematical mind; tens were easier to calculate than twelves; you just stuck in a decimal point. Twelve pence to the shilling was all wrong, really.

He turned as the door opened to admit his inquisitor of yesterday; the man Keth had dubbed Slab Face and against whom he still felt resentment, even though his cheek had not bruised.

‘You’ve had your final check?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Feeling all right?’

‘No, but I’m working on it.’ Why did the man irritate him so?

‘You’ll be leaving in the morning about ten; arrive at the naval base about eleven. When you sail will be up to the submarine people. Their ops room will work out your expected time of arrival and tell us so we can alert our people at the other end.’

‘Seems all very straightforward, sir.’

‘We like to think we know what we are doing, Captain. Good luck.’ He held out a hand and Keth was surprised its grasp was firm and warm. It comforted him until the man turned, hand on the door knob and said, ‘You’ll be given your D-pill in the morning, by the way.’

‘My …?’

‘Dammit, man – do I have to spell it out?’

‘But I hadn’t thought –’ Keth stopped, all at once feeling real fear.

‘What hadn’t you thought?’

‘That I was all that important. No one told me about anything like – well, that …’

‘Then you should have been told. And we do not consider any of our operatives unimportant, Captain. You are being sent to France because you have special knowledge of the machine you are to bring back with you and not because of your prowess as an SOE operative – nor your ability to survive under questioning.’

‘No, sir.’ He was doing it again: putting him down.

‘You have more knowledge than you think. Under duress not only would you tell them why you were in France, but before they’d finished with you you’d have told them about Bletchley and how much we know already about their Enigma machine. They think their signalling system is safe because they change the code every day, but with persuasion you would tell them that we are breaking their army and air force codes whenever we want to, and that soon we hope to be breaking their U-boat signals, too.’

He paused, breathing deeply and loudly as if allowing time for his words to be given fullest consideration.

‘So that is why, before you leave, Captain, you will go through your final briefing, be given your codename – Gaston Martin’s codename – and advised where best to hide your pill. And that when you swallow it you will be dead in fifty seconds.

‘I have had grave doubts about sending you, but it is too late now to do anything about it. But of one thing I am sure. You, as an individual, are of little value; what you know is. Never forget that. Good day to you. Good luck.’

Keth stood transfixed, wanting – needing – to yell, ‘Bastard!’ at the top of his voice, wanting to tell him to find some other fool to do his dirty work. But he did not because now there was no going back and anyway, all at once he seemed incapable of speech or movement. All he could be sure of was his love for Daisy and his need to hold her close.

Damn Slab Face! Petulantly he swept the coins from the window-ledge and into his pocket. And in the morning when he left this place, he would not think of Keth Purvis nor his mother, nor Rowangarth. And especially he would not let himself think of Daisy because Gaston Martin was going to France and only when he returned could Keth Purvis be himself again.

‘I love you, Daisy,’ he said out loud. ‘I’ll love you till the day I die.’

Then he thought of the D-pill and wanted to weep as he had not wept since the day his father died, but instead he sucked in his breath and said very slowly and deliberately, ‘Wherever you are, my darling – take care …’

Grace Fielding gave the apple a final polish then laid it carefully on the rack. She knew all about the storage of apples and pears now; had no need to ask instructions. Yet the trouble with grading and wiping and storing fruit for the winter, Gracie frowned, was the time it gave her to brood; think that for three days had there been neither a letter nor phone call from Bas – which was unusual.

The crunch of footsteps on the path sent her hurrying to the door and down the wooden steps of the apple loft to find not Bas, nor Tilda, who had said she would call in for apples, but a tall army sergeant who smiled and said, ‘Afternoon, miss. Can you tell me where I can find Mr Jack Catchpole?’

‘He’s over yonder in the far corner, seeing to the winter chrysanths.’

She pointed to where late-flowering chrysanthemums, grown to bloom at Christmas, were being transferred into pots, ready to be carried into the shelter of a greenhouse at the first sniff of frost on the air. But Catchpole, who missed nothing, was already advancing, garden fork in hand, in the direction of the trespasser.

‘Afternoon, sir.’ The soldier held out a hand which was reluctantly taken. ‘Sergeant Sydney Willis. Would you be the orchid expert I’ve been hearing about?’

Catchpole’s expression softened. He liked being addressed as sir and having his undoubted knowledge in the cultivation and propagation of orchids deferred to.

‘Happen I’m the gentleman you’m looking for.’ He laid aside his fork and reached for his pipe to clamp it, empty, between his teeth. ‘But you wasn’t expected, sergeant,’ he admonished in order to establish that visits to his garden were strictly by appointment.

‘No. I’m sorry, but I took the chance, in passing, of finding you. I was told of your experience with orchids, you see, and –’

‘By who?’

‘By sergeant Tom Dwerryhouse. I was talking to him in the pub. Famous for your orchids, he said, and being a gardener myself I took the liberty of calling. Leeds Corporation Parks and Gardens,’ he added hastily, eager to establish a rapport. ‘Keen to learn more about orchids, they being a favourite of mine.’

Catchpole, mollified, returned his pipe to his pocket, dolefully remarking that he’d clean run out of tobacco, but if the sergeant would care to stay for a sup of tea, his apprentice would soon be making one. At which, Sergeant Willis offered a fill from his own pouch, then settled himself eagerly on the proffered apple box.

‘You have a fine garden, Mr Catchpole. I envy you.’ He gazed with a practised eye at near perfection.

‘’S now’t like it should be. No specialist growing now on account of there being no coke for heating the glasshouses. Time was when I had two under-gardeners and at least three ’prentices.’ His eyes took on a yearning look. ‘But nowt’s the same with two dratted wars to contend with, though my land girl is a grand lass and willing to learn. Had me doubts when Miss Julia landed me with her,’ he murmured through a haze of tobacco smoke, ‘but her’s got the makings of a gardener in her if she don’t go getting herself wed like most females do.’

It was then that Tilda, in search of her apples, appeared by way of the small back gate, eyebrows raised questioningly at the stranger who had inveigled his way into the garden.

‘Now then, Tilda! Gracie’s got your apples. Her’s in the shed, mashing a pot of tea.’

‘Who’s he, then?’ Tilda demanded in a whisper to which Gracie whispered back that he was a gardener, or had been in civvy street, and was here to see the orchid house – she thought. And when she had delivered two mugs of tea she gave Tilda the bag of apples, remarking that as far as she knew the sergeant’s name was Sydney Willis and he came from Leeds.

‘But you’ll stay for a cup, Tilda? The kettle’s almost boiled again. Think I can squeeze a drop more out of this pot. I should have brought those apples to the house, but I was running late this morning,’ she offered when they had settled themselves in the shelter of the now empty tomato house from which there was an uninterrupted view of the two men. ‘And you know what a stickler for time-keeping Mr C is.’

Which wasn’t true, really. She was late this morning, there was no denying it, but only because she had hung around, waiting as long as she dare for the red Post Office van – which hadn’t come, of course.

To which Tilda replied that it was no trouble at all to collect them, it being a nice afternoon and she having time on her hands on account of there being little with which to cook; demanding to know more about the soldier who seemed to be getting on like a house on fire with the crusty head gardener.

‘Don’t know any more’n I’ve told you,’ Gracie blew hard on the hot, pale liquid in her mug, ‘’cept that he said he worked for Leeds Corporation.’

Tilda nodded, keeping to herself the knowledge she had gained in a passing glance; that the soldier belonged to the Green Howards, a Yorkshire regiment; that he was middle-aged, like herself, and like herself was showing signs of greying in places though he was tall and straight and wore a Clark Gable moustache with great aplomb. She nodded again, sipped her tea, and wondered if he was married.

She was still asking herself the same question as she skirted the wild garden on her way back to Rowangarth, and it came as a pleasant shock to hear her name being called in strong, masculine tones.

‘Miss Tewk! Wait!’

She turned to see the soldier, bearing a carrier bag of apples.

‘You forget them, miss,’ he smiled. ‘I volunteered to deliver them.’

‘Oh! That’s very – er – kind of you.’ She felt the flush of colour to her cheeks because she’d been so interested in Catchpole’s visitor she had clean forgotten the apples. ‘But you shouldn’t have gone out of your way, sergeant.’

‘Sydney,’ he corrected, smiling, ‘And I didn’t go out of my way, exactly. I offered to bring them because I wanted to ask you –’

‘Yes?’ Tilda whispered, snatching on her breath.

‘To ask if I might call on my next spot of time off.’

‘Oooooh!’ She felt distinctly peculiar.

‘I’d like a closer look at that grand avenue of lindens over yonder, you see. Mr Catchpole told me his grandfather planted them more than fifty years ago.’

‘Now that I couldn’t say.’ Tilda, distinctly disappointed, found her tongue. ‘You’d have to ask Mrs Sutton’s permission for that, her being in charge whilst Sir Andrew’s away at sea. I could mention it to her, though I’m sure it’ll be all right if Mr Catchpole says it will – him being head gardener.’

‘He did give me permission, Miss Tewk. I just thought it might be nice to have the pleasure of your company, you being familiar, so to speak, with the trees on the estate. He did mention that Rowangarth has some very fine English elms.’

‘We have. On the far edge of Brattocks Wood.’

A walk in the woods with a soldier – next Wednesday, weather permitting, at half-past two, she thought tremblingly as later she fretted over unaccustomed lumps in her bechamel sauce.

She wondered yet again if Sergeant Willis was married and knew, deep within her love-starved heart, that he was, which was just Tilda Tewk’s bad luck, she supposed, sighing deeply. She, who had always wanted a gentleman friend of her own, had never been lucky in love, there being so many young men taken in the last war and plain girls like herself shoved to the back of the queue. She had given her young heart to the Prince of Wales, him so boyishly handsome and with such a wistful smile. Her love for him was pure and from a great distance and she had only removed his picture from the kitchen mantel when Mrs Simpson got her claws into him.

At one time, Tilda pondered, as she squashed another lump against the side of the pan with her spoon, she had longed for a husband and children, then downgraded her hopes to perhaps just one passionate love affair. And since passion had never chanced her way, she had long since decided to settle for a dalliance, however brief. Now it seemed as if her prayers had been answered in the handsome form of Sergeant Sydney Willis and she would walk in Brattocks with him on her next afternoon off and show him the elms and the old, propped-up oak that folk said was almost as old as Rowangarth itself – if looking at trees was what interested him, that was. And if asked, she would continue their friendship until he admitted he had a wife and children when, as had happened with the Prince of Wales, she would be forced to give him up.

But until that happened, she decided with stiff-lipped determination, she would make the most of what the Fates allowed and be thankful for small mercies. And a dalliance.

‘I hoped you’d come.’ Alice dried her hands and took off her pinafore.

‘You knew I would.’ Julia pulled out a chair and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. ‘It’s just a year now since …’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen mantel.

‘Since we were celebrating your wedding anniversary and Mother-in-law’s birthday. And then the bombers were shot down and –’

No need for words as they clasped hands across the table top; no cause to say that Reuben, whom Alice looked upon as a father, and Mrs Shaw and Jinny Dobb had died that night. Nathan’s father, too.

‘How’s Nathan taking it?’

‘Not too badly. He asked prayers for them all at early Communion and for the two aircrews who died. He’s over Creesby way tonight. A young wife six months pregnant in need of comfort, he said. She got a telegram this morning. Husband killed in the Middle East. Should have gone myself. I know what the poor woman is going through,’ she said flatly.

‘Of course, love,’ Alice said gently. ‘I went through it as well, ’cept that Tom came back. I took flowers to the graves this morning – had a little weep. And I won’t forget Lady Helen, either.’

‘It was a swine of a week, wasn’t it? Four deaths and two of our bombers, then Mother died too, just days after. It was as if the old ones had had enough. Two wars in anyone’s lifetime is cruel.’

‘I’ll be there if you want me, Julia, like always – if Nathan won’t think I’m interfering, that is.’

‘He won’t. You and me have always remembered things together. Mother’s first anniversary isn’t the time to stop. And I’ve booked a call to Montpelier Mews; told the exchange that if no one answers at Rowangarth I’d be here – that’s okay, isn’t it? Don’t want to block your line or anything.’

‘You won’t be. Daisy got through half an hour ago to let me know she hadn’t forgotten – sent her love to you, too. And I’m glad you’re ringing London. Folk are inclined to forget Tatty and her airman. She’ll be a long time getting over that night. By the by, Daisy met Drew and Kitty; briefly, she said. They were both fine, though Drew will be back at sea now.’

‘And Kitty away to London. Well, at least she’ll be good for Tatty, and Sparrow will have two of them to fuss over.’ Julia pushed back her chair as the phone in the passage outside began to ring. ‘That’ll be my call.’

‘Then remember me to them all – and say special love from me to Tatty, won’t you?’

Alice filled the kettle and set it to boil, wondering how many times she and Julia had shared a comforting cup.

Too many to count, she thought sadly. Far, far too many.