Her Secret War Page 13

  ‘The Dragon working you too hard?’ Uncle Tom asked with a wiggle of his brows.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s it exactly.’ If only!

  It was a mellow evening. The dying autumnal light painted the trees in glorious golds, yellows and ochre, and the hedgerows were bursting with shiny blackberries, waiting to be plucked. But Sarah kept moving. A chorus of birdsong and the whirr of the bicycle were the only sounds she heard. Heaven, or as close as. Sometimes, it was difficult to believe they were in the middle of a war when surrounded by such beautiful countryside. In the short time since she had arrived, Sarah had grown to love the place. The possibility of returning to Dublin had never entered her head until today’s shock, but now she might have to consider it, albeit reluctantly.

  Sarah breathed in deeply as she cycled up the Winchester Road and felt the tension in her body ease. If only she could confide in someone! But the captain had made it clear what would happen if word got out. Besides, who could she tell? Moreover, who could she trust? Sarah hoped it would be easier to think away from the house. And boy, did she have a lot to mull over.

  Turning off to the left, Sarah pedalled along the narrow road, searching for the spot Martin had shown her the week before on one of their long walks. A few yards down she found it. Sarah dismounted, leaned the bike against the wall, and hopped over it where a fallen tree made access easy. Strictly speaking, the ruins of Merdon Castle were out of bounds. If the military patrol caught her, she’d get into trouble, even though it was part of the Hursley Park estate. But Sarah reckoned it was unlikely they would bother to patrol this end of the grounds in the evening, and she skipped down the embankment into the old moat, now overgrown, the water long gone.

  The ruins, at the top of a rise, provided a view of the rolling fields stretched out below. A more idyllic scene would be hard to find; just a pity she had such a knotty problem to mull over. Sarah plonked down on the grass and wrapped her arms around her knees. Staring off into the distance, she relived the conversation with Northcott. In effect, he’d given her an ultimatum, even though it had been couched in benign language. The consequences could be ghastly, no matter what she decided. Act for Northcott and a man’s life could be forfeit; refuse, and her family would be snatched away from her.

  From the pocket of her jacket, she pulled out the card Northcott had handed her and twirled it through her fingers. There was no crest or address, only Northcott’s name and a Southampton phone number. An uninvited image of the man flashed into her mind. Was he who he claimed? He’d given little away, other than that he was in the Navy, but she assumed he worked for some other secret government organisation from the hints he had dropped, and the fact he had access to Supermarine’s personnel files. That limp of his was bad. Had he been invalided out of the naval service and gone to work for the security services as a result? She knew next to nothing about how the security services worked or how they recruited. Was it normal to enlist the help of young girls just off the boat from Ireland? It didn’t sound plausible, and yet that’s exactly what Northcott had done.

  A small part of her was flattered that someone like Northcott would consider her capable. And of course she wanted vengeance; a way to hit back. It burnt brightly in her mind all the time. And here was the British establishment handing her the perfect opportunity to bring down a Nazi sympathiser. A thrill went through her. Yes, it would be dangerous, but wouldn’t it also be exciting? Wouldn’t it ease the pain of Maura’s – or even Da’s – violent death? Perhaps not, but it was better than nothing. Above all else, it proved she had made the right decision to come to England. An opportunity like this would never have arisen back home.

  But it was all very strange. She almost laughed aloud. Sarah Gillespie a spy! How Ma and Maura would have laughed and teased. And poor Da! He would have hated it so very much. So much, in fact, it gave her a little thrill. His shenanigans had been rooted in ideals few believed in any more, the cause of much pain and even death; at least what she would be doing would be fighting evil. If only she could tell Paul. She had no doubt he would be proud of her.

  However, submitting to Northcott’s demand without question didn’t sit well with her. Surely spies were older, wiser and had access to major secrets; not lowly tracers who barely understood the plans they worked on?

  But what were her choices?

  He had placed her in a tricky position. Either she did as he asked to prove her loyalty to Britain, or she had to face the possibility of going home. That wasn’t the end of the world – it was the threat to deport the Lambe family that was the death blow. And Northcott knew that. If that happened, the Lambes would never forgive her and she wouldn’t blame them.

  But what if Northcott or his source were mistaken? If Rob were wrongly accused, she would be a party to a travesty of justice. Was there even a modicum of due process during wartime? And didn’t they execute traitors? Sarah shivered. She didn’t want that on her conscience, even if he was guilty.

  Shouldn’t she do a little digging for information of her own? The notion appealed to her, but how was she to do it without drawing attention and giving herself away? So far, she only knew a handful of Supermarine staff. Would any of them be able to give her information? Ruth was an obvious choice, but there was something strange about her brief relationship with Rob. If Rob had tried to involve her in his scheme, as logic would suggest he must have, she hadn’t agreed to it. And, if she knew Rob was a spy, why hadn’t she informed on him? Unless, of course, she was Northcott’s source – or a Nazi sympathiser herself. No, she would have to stay clear of Ruth.

  Then she remembered. Didn’t Vera who worked with her on the sets for the play work in Wages? If she could get Vera alone for a few minutes tomorrow night, she could ask a few general questions about the lads she worked with to see if anything popped up. The pretext for asking the questions might be fiddly; she’d have to be careful. Sarah couldn’t risk Vera spooking Rob by letting something drop. However, overall, it seemed the most sensible course of action. Sarah would feel more comfortable if she could confirm some basis for Northcott’s assertions.

  Next, she had a pressing difficulty: figuring out how she was to secure the drawings without being caught. She wasn’t even sure where they were kept. And how could she find out without giving herself away? Then there was the question of what a German spy would actually want. Even if she could get Rob the drawings he desired, wouldn’t they be missed? And if they were, there would be an investigation.

  With a shudder, Sarah’s thoughts turned to Da. Was she never to be free of him and his vile past? Although she had played down Da’s activities to Northcott, she knew well Da had been up to mischief over the years. He’d often boasted of his role in the War of Independence, but whether he had been active after that she hadn’t been sure. There had been talk in the neighbourhood when they were children; insidious whispers about Da’s violence and outspoken views, and scornful glances in the local shops as Sarah and Maura clung to their mother’s hand. Sarah had grown up accepting it as normal, not comprehending how devastating and isolating it must have been for her mother.

  Now, Sarah realised she had been naïve. Da must have been up to something for people to act like that. Did the British secret service know what he had been doing? If they did, it suggested the Irish authorities were feeding them information. That was a surprise, knowing how poor relations were between the two countries. And would Northcott’s organisation really use Da’s past against her if she didn’t co-operate? They probably didn’t even need an excuse to deport people. In a time of war, no one would question it. The irony didn’t escape her. A fine legacy her Da had left her!

  Sarah vented her frustration with a curse that caused the crows in the trees above to screech and take to the sky. Sarah watched them circle above her before they flew away. How she envied their freedom. Perhaps she should just take off; pack her bags and quietly disappear. But that would hurt her family, and she hadn’t a friend in the world, except maybe Paul, and she
didn’t know where he was and had no way to find out. No, that was a daft idea. And what was there to stop Northcott carrying out his threat and deporting the Lambes in retaliation, anyway? Sarah gnawed at her lower lip.

  Dare she enter Northcott’s shadowy world? What the man proposed was tantamount to using her as an agent provocateur. Wasn’t that illegal? What protection would Northcott give her if it all went belly-up? Although new to these shady undertakings, she knew there would be nothing to link her to Northcott, and she had a sneaking suspicion he would deny all knowledge. She would be Northcott’s scapegoat. There seemed to be only one solution to protect herself. She’d write it all down in a journal as Gaeilge; that way most people on finding it wouldn’t be able to read it. But Uncle Tom would. That way, even if the plan resulted in her demise, the truth would come out.

  There was one other rather thorny matter. She had declined Rob’s requests that she go out with him, not only once, but twice. And the thought of being intimate with him made her stomach turn, particularly if he was a Nazi. She shuddered at the thought. How on earth could she do it without revealing her true feelings? There appeared to be only one way she could manage it, and that was to think of it as performing a role in a play. Yes, that might work.

  However, to suddenly turn around and encourage Rob’s advances now would look suspicious, wouldn’t it? Especially if he were a fifth columnist in daily dread of being exposed, second-guessing everyone and everything? Oh bother, she huffed. This was going to be difficult. She would have to engineer a casual meeting and hope he might ask again. How to handle things after that, she had no clue.

  Sarah took in the scene before her and knew she didn’t want to leave; she loved her job and could see a life for herself here in England. She breathed out slowly. It was going to be dangerous, but now she had decided on a course of action, the near panic she had felt all afternoon lifted at last. She would act for Northcott and face the possible consequences.

  17

  14th October 1941, Otterbourne

  With her decision made, Sarah didn’t see much point in wasting time. She would contact Northcott that evening. However, she had to be careful. He had been adamant that any communication between them had to be kept secret. The phone box in Hursley was slap-bang in the middle of the village and in full view of almost everyone. She had never used it – for who would she be ringing? – so if one of the family spotted her making a call, it would be difficult to explain. Using a telephone box in another village would be a safer option.

  Although all was quiet and few people were about, Sarah pedalled through Hursley with her head down. At the crossroads she took the turn she hoped was for Otterbourne. All the road signs had been removed at the start of the war, but she recalled Martin talking about the other village only days before as they had passed the turn on their way to work. After fifteen minutes she was on the verge of turning back, thinking she must have taken a wrong turn, when she reached the outskirts of Otterbourne. She was taking a risk, but hopefully no one would recognise her; although it was possible some residents worked at Supermarine.

  Sarah passed an elderly couple out for a stroll and heard the chatter from the open door of the pub as she cycled past. Finally, she spotted the red telephone box by the side of the road. To her relief, it wasn’t in use. Leaning her bicycle up against it, she scanned the surroundings before ducking inside.

  ‘Southampton 379,’ Sarah asked the operator, looking down at Northcott’s card.

  ‘Insert your coins, caller,’ she was instructed. Sarah did so, pushed button A, and waited for the connection. After several clicks, a female voice answered. It must be Mrs Northcott or a maid. Flustered, Sarah asked to speak to the captain in a faltering voice.

  There was a pause followed by an icy: ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Miss Gillespie,’ Sarah replied. She caught her breath with a start. Should she have used her real name? Too late. Sarah heard the receiver being put down. Her heart was pounding; a few minutes more and she would have committed to carrying out Northcott’s plan.

  ‘Hello?’ It was Northcott. She’d know that clipped accent anywhere.

  ‘Good evening, Captain. It’s Sarah Gillespie.’

  ‘How delightful, Miss Gillespie. I do hope you have good news for me,’ he drawled.

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Yes, I’ve come to a decision. I’m willing to help you.’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered, as if any other outcome hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  ‘There is one condition, sir, however.’

  ‘Oh? Before you continue, might I remind you to be circumspect. This is a public line.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Captain.’

  ‘Jolly good. Do continue.’

  ‘I would like your guarantee my family will not be affected by any of this. That they will not be … that you will not, you know, no matter what the outcome. I will do my best for you, but I cannot guarantee I will be successful. I’ve undertaken nothing like this before.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Miss Gillespie, I understand your concern, but I have every confidence in your abilities. I would only act in extreme circumstances.’

  Not very much mollified by his answer, she swallowed a retort and replied. ‘Thank you. What do I need to do now?’

  ‘As I outlined to you earlier, you must reconnect with the gentleman. The sooner this is set in motion the better. Can’t proceed until that happens.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, sir, but as I explained, that might be problematic,’ she said.

  ‘I hardly need to tell you what to do, Miss Gillespie; you’re no schoolgirl. As he will be more than keen, I don’t foresee any problem. Might I also remind you that this is your best chance to strike a blow and, in the process, help your adopted country.’

  Sarah smarted and her grip on the receiver tightened. ‘I’ll try my best.’

  ‘Excellent! I look forward to hearing your report. I will meet you on Friday evening at Farley Mount, at six o’clock. It’s a famous local landmark. Do you know where it is? We can discuss the finer details there … in private.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’ Farley Mount. Sarah hadn’t heard of it, but hopefully it wasn’t too far away.

  ‘Jolly good. I wish you a pleasant evening, Miss Gillespie. Thank you for calling.’ He hung up on her.

  Sarah replaced the receiver. She’d hoped to get more information from him, but he must have feared someone was listening in on the line. With a sigh, she left the telephone box and wheeled her bicycle along the road. Despite Northcott’s claim that reviving her ‘relationship’ with Rob would be easy, she couldn’t see how it was to be achieved. If only she hadn’t been so forthright with Rob at the dance that night. He would think she was barmy to change her mind. But first things first; she had to contrive an ‘accidental’ meeting. Work seemed the best place to do it.

  ‘I don’t think my painting skills are up to scratch,’ Sarah remarked to her scene painting partner, Vera, the following evening at the Hut. They had spent the previous hour doing their best to create a garden scene backdrop. ‘Though it could be more to do with only having three colours to work with.’ Sarah stood back, but her efforts didn’t look any better at a distance, even with her eyes scrunched up.

  ‘We had to beg, borrow and steal to get even this much paint. And don’t you dare ask for green! The army must have commandeered every tin in the country,’ Vera said.

  ‘If only we had some yellow to mix with that odd blue shade.’

  ‘Well, we don’t.’ Vera joined her and surveyed their attempt, her expression as bleak as her tone.

  ‘I guess it will have to be a winter scene if we have no paint for the leaves. This is beginning to look more Gothic horror than comedy,’ Sarah said with a grin.

  Vera’s lips twitched. ‘Don’t let the cast hear you say that. They take it all very seriously.’

  With a sigh, Sarah put down her brush. ‘So would I if I had the chance to do more than backstage cho
res.’ She looked past Vera to where the cast were rehearsing and had to suppress a pang of envy.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad, is it?’ Vera replied. ‘It’s got to beat listening to the awful news about Russia on the radio every evening.’

  ‘True!’ Raised voices drifted through from the other room and Sarah gripped Vera’s arm. ‘Oh, no! They’re at it again! I bet Anthony fluffed his lines once more.’

  Vera followed her gaze to the outer room where the argument was in full flight. ‘I don’t think they have improved much, do you? The play will never be ready for Christmas.’

  Sarah chuckled and clasped her hands together, putting on her poshest voice. ‘The Times review reads as follows: “Carnage near Southampton – The Hursley Players brought the long-awaited production of Hay Fever to the inhabitants of Hursley this Christmastide. However, we are sad to report that Mr Coward would not be amused to see the slaughter of one of his most celebrated plays. Luckily, the evening was saved by the exquisite scenery and clever stage management of Vera Taylor and Sarah Gillespie.”’ Vera bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Sarah reverted to her normal tone: ‘Just you wait and see, Vera. We will be hunted down by Hollywood and whisked away to pursue our dreams of fame and fortune.’

  Vera snorted and rolled her eyes. ‘You do talk nonsense sometimes, Sarah.’

  ‘It keeps me sane. Now, let’s take a break. They’ll want their tea soon, anyway.’

  Vera, still shaking her head, led the way to the tiny kitchenette at the back of the hall. Sarah leaned against the cupboard as her companion filled the kettle. This was the perfect opportunity to do some digging.

  ‘Vera, what’s it like working with a mixture of lads and girls? Do the men talk a lot of boring old politics?’

  Vera shot her a curious glance. ‘Gosh, no. It’s mostly sport. Some of them are obsessed with football, the rest with cricket. Tiresome for the most part.’

  ‘But they must comment on the war sometimes?’

  ‘Not often; only when something big happens. Half of them seem to feel guilty they aren’t in the forces, fighting.’