Her Secret War Read online

‘Good gracious; that was mean-spirited after what you had gone through.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Yes, but I was relieved, to be honest. The boss was a terrible snob and we never got on. I would have changed jobs at the first opportunity, anyway.’

  ‘Still, that must have been a blow.’

  ‘I had more pressing problems. When I was discharged, I had to go to a refuge set up in the local convent.’

  ‘Why was that? Was the house that badly damaged?’

  ‘Yes. There is nothing left but a pile of rubble, Uncle Tom. I have no idea when or if they will rebuild. There is a plan for some residents to move to council houses on the outskirts. As I’m on my own, they probably wouldn’t offer one to me. Families are considered more urgent, as is only right. But the problem was I found it strange in the refuge. There was no privacy, and although I was thankful to have a roof over my head, I couldn’t settle. The nuns meant well, of course, and were kind. But when your letter was redirected to the refuge, it was more than welcome.’

  ‘Not at all! Family always comes first, I say. And, as it happens, Supermarine is constantly on the lookout for suitable employees. Our workload has increased dramatically in the last six months.’

  ‘Did the RAF lose many planes during the Battle of Britain?’

  ‘Aye, and the demand is rising all the time. Production has ramped up to meet it, with the factories working twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘A good friend of mine has enlisted in the RAF.’

  ‘Where is he based?’ Uncle Tom asked.

  ‘I don’t know as I haven’t heard from him since he enlisted. I gave him your address so that he could write to me. I hope that was ok?’

  Tom chuckled. ‘Of course. Was he someone special?’

  Sarah felt the colour rush into her cheeks. ‘Yes, at one point.’

  There! She had mentioned him without falling into the abyss. All these weeks she had repressed any memories of him. It was the only way she could cope, move forward, and make a new life. Leaving Ireland had been difficult enough without lingering on recollections of their time together and their favourite haunts: walks down the Bull Wall wooden bridge to Dollymount Strand or strolling down Howth harbour; nights out on the town; these were filed under ‘the past’ now. But it did make her a tiny bit sad that she was almost reconciled to his loss. Was she becoming heartless?

  Uncle Tom hesitated for a moment and gave her a sheepish look. ‘I know so little about your lives. How remiss I have been. I should have made more of an effort to stay in touch after your mother died. I had meant to visit ye in Dublin, too. But the timing was never right.’

  ‘When were you last home to Ireland, Uncle Tom?’

  ‘Ah, my dear, I’m so long living in England I don’t think of Ireland as home any more.’ He paused a moment. ‘Isn’t that sad? But I came here as a lad of fifteen. There was no work in Galway then; it was emigrate or starve.’ He sighed. ‘But to answer your question, it would have been your grandmother’s funeral in Roundstone in ’24. You were only a young ’un in your mother’s arms then, so I doubt you remember.’

  ‘No, I don’t. But Ma always spoke of you and Galway with great affection. We never visited, though. Da didn’t like … well, he objected to the cost of going. It was Ma’s dearest wish to return to see Aunt Peggy, but then Ma fell ill with TB …’

  Uncle Tom grunted and pursed his lips. ‘Aye, well, your Da and I never got on, I’m afraid. We would have been there for your mother’s funeral but we didn’t find out about it until it was too late to travel.’ With a sigh, he continued. ‘Jim could be a difficult man.’

  Sarah looked away. ‘Difficult’ was not the word which most readily came to mind.

  7

  6th September 1941, Hursley

  Half an hour later, Sarah clambered off the bus after her uncle. They were in the centre of a village with a beautiful old church sheltered by ancient trees on one side of the road. Opposite was a two-storey Georgian building, a sign proclaiming ‘The King’s Head’ swinging gently in the breeze in the front garden. From the little Sarah had seen so far, the village consisted of rows of red-bricked cottages hugging the main road. It was a charming place.

  ‘Welcome to Hursley, Sarah,’ Uncle Tom said, taking her suitcase. ‘Come along. If we are in luck, Alice will have the kettle on.’

  ‘Some of these cottages must be ancient,’ she said, admiring a fine example with latticed windows and a white front door which contrasted beautifully with the old brick.

  ‘Yes; ours is at least two or three hundred years old. Not a straight wall in the place! We were lucky; some people ended up in huts which were specially built at the farthest end of the village. Not half as nice as our cottage, nor as cosy.’

  As they passed a forge, the blacksmith shouted out a greeting to her uncle. ‘Fine afternoon, Tom!’

  Uncle Tom responded in kind but kept walking. ‘Time enough for you to meet the locals,’ he said quietly with a wink. ‘And … here we are.’ He stopped in front of a dormer cottage with a green door and pots of white geraniums on either side.

  Without further ado, he pushed open the door. ‘Alice, we’re here!’ he called out. Taking a steadying breath, Sarah followed. They walked straight into a small parlour which served as a sitting and dining room with an enormous brick fireplace at one end and ancient rafters hugging the ceiling. There was clutter everywhere, but it had a welcoming feel. Sarah liked it on sight. As she moved into the room, a woman and a young man rose from the table. Her aunt came forward and clasped Sarah’s hand warmly. Aunt Alice was bird-like, a tiny woman with greying hair and a rosy complexion.

  ‘You are very welcome, Sarah,’ her aunt said, her grey eyes twinkling. There was still a strong Galway lilt to her voice. ‘We’re delighted you have come to us.’ Then she turned to the young man. ‘This is Martin, your cousin.’ Martin nodded and grinned. He was the image of his father, Sarah thought, as she shook hands with him.

  ‘Come and sit down, a stór; you must be exhausted, coming all that way. Take the seat here beside the fire,’ her aunt urged. ‘Martin, take Sarah’s coat and pop her suitcase up to the bedroom, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Alice, I could murder a cuppa,’ Uncle Tom said, sitting down at the table. Sarah grinned at him as she handed her coat to her cousin.

  Martin headed towards the stairs, passing a dresser on which there were several framed photographs.

  ‘May I?’ she asked her aunt, indicating the collection.

  ‘Of course, my dear.’

  Sarah walked over and recognised a photograph of her mother, and one of Maura and herself as children. Uncle Tom came to stand beside her. With a lump in her throat, Sarah picked up her mother’s picture. ‘All of ours were destroyed in the bombing.’ She looked up at her uncle. ‘It’s wonderful that you have these.’

  Tom pointed to the photo of her and Maura. ‘She sent me that one shortly before she died. If you like, we can try to get them copied for you. Come along, your tea will go cold,’ he said. ‘And I suspect, if we are very well behaved, there may even be cake.’

  Whether it was because Tom was a link to her mother, or because of the peace and homeliness of the Lambe house, Sarah’s weeks of anxiety regarding her decision to emigrate began to evaporate.

  The following day was Sunday, and after returning from Mass in Winchester, Martin suggested he show Sarah the sights. They walked up a meandering laneway from the centre of the village until they reached higher ground. With a majestic sweep of his arm, Martin invited her to sit on the wall. Once she was settled, he pointed down to the cluster of cottages. ‘Behold, the great metropolis of Hursley!’ Martin grinned at her. ‘Actually, it’s not half as quiet as it seems today. Between all of us working at Supermarine and the evacuees from Southampton, it can get quite lively. As you saw this morning, Winchester isn’t far either for a night out.’ Martin hopped up onto the wall beside her. ‘I suppose it’s all very different to Dublin?’

  ‘Yes, it is, but I�
�m sure I’ll get used to living out in the sticks, as we say at home.’

  ‘Ah! Do you think we are nothing but bumpkins? Huh, you city slickers are all the same.’ Sarah giggled as he elbowed her gently. ‘Poor old Judith couldn’t stand it here and high-tailed it to London some months ago. Now she has a fancy job in the civil service. It’s given her airs which it is my great pleasure to deflate every time she comes home. The parents miss her, so having you to stay is a wonderful distraction.’ Martin studied her for a moment. ‘Yes, I think you will do just fine.’

  ‘Why, thank you!’

  ‘Don’t mention it! Seriously though, you’ll settle in quickly once you start working. In the meantime, make the most of it. It will be long hours at Supermarine, as like as not.’

  ‘You work in the Drawing Office, same as Uncle Tom, don’t you?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been in the company since I left school. Just as well, because with my poor eyesight I couldn’t enlist.’ Martin tapped the side of his glasses, his expression suddenly glum. ‘Thank heaven I had a talent for drawing. I couldn’t bear not to be doing something for the war effort.’

  ‘That’s part of the reason I wanted to leave Ireland and come here. Nothing I could do at home was going to help matters. Even after what happened, there is no hope of the Irish government changing their minds about neutrality. It was difficult for me to accept that, so your father’s invitation couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Leaving Ireland, in the end, was an easy decision.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I can understand why you must want revenge on Jerry. Must have been a beastly experience.’

  ‘Yes, it was dreadful, and as I recovered from my injuries the full consequences of that night hit me. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Our house was gone, and with Maura and Da …‍’ Martin patted her shoulder, ‘‍… I was in a kind of limbo. My Da’s family are all down in Cork and Ma’s in Galway; I barely know them, and the situation is worse in both cities from what I hear: no jobs and rationing hitting hard. Then a friend encouraged me to consider leaving, like he planned to do. Paul has joined the RAF.’

  Sarah picked a blackberry from a branch which straddled the wall and popped it into her mouth. She plucked another one and offered it to Martin.

  ‘Lucky sod! What I wouldn’t give to join up. All I can do is help to design the planes,’ Martin said with a sad smile, before tossing the blackberry in the air and catching it in his mouth. ‘I’ll never fly one.’

  ‘But what you’re doing is vital work.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is, but a man can have a dream, can’t he?’ Martin’s expression was wistful.

  ‘And I’d love to be a film star, but that’s not going to happen either,’ Sarah said, and Martin burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You seem to me to be quite a determined young lady. I’m a huge film fan myself, as it happens. Try to go once a week. You wouldn’t be interested in joining the amateur dramatic society, would you? It’s a lark and a great way to meet people. Quite a few from Supermarine have joined.’

  Sarah was delighted. ‘Gosh, I’d love to. I was in one at home, but only briefly.’

  ‘Perfect, I’ll drag you along to the next meet-up. We’re always looking for people to help out. They hope to put the play on at Christmas.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Hay Fever. Do you know it?’

  ‘That’s a Noël Coward play, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. It’s hilarious. I was lucky enough to be cast as Richard Greatham. A diplomat, would you believe?’

  ‘No typecasting then,’ Sarah quipped, which earned her a dirty look. ‘Where does the group meet? Is it far?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘No, not at all. We use the Hut on Port Lane. The building is fairly rudimentary, mind, and a bit damp. It’s two old army huts joined together, but it does for rehearsals. I think the plan is to get permission to stage it in one of the large reception rooms at Hursley Park.’

  ‘Are the huts from the last war?’ she asked.

  ‘Gosh, yes, but I don’t know any of the history. There is talk that the army may want to use the grounds again at some stage, but so far they have left us in peace.’

  They sat in silence for a while, looking at the rooftops down below. Sarah was lost in thought. Eventually she spoke up: ‘Will I be accepted here? Could my nationality be an issue?’ she asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, no more than my family’s,’ he replied with a frown. ‘You let me know if anyone says anything. I’ll sort them out.’

  ‘Thank you! I’ve always wanted a knight in shining armour.’

  ‘Happy to oblige.’

  Sarah acknowledged this with a nod. ‘I’m dying to get started at Supermarine. How long will it take for my ID card to come through? I don’t want to be a burden to your parents.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that; they are only too glad to have you here. It shouldn’t take too long to sort out the paperwork. Father said you will need to go into Winchester with him during the week to sort all that official stuff out, but I can’t see any difficulty. With your work experience, you will be snapped up. Supermarine are crying out for workers. Father has already spoken to Mr Hargreaves – he’s the Employment Manager – and there’s a spot for you on the tracing team. The tracing girls are good fun; you’ll like working with them. They’re always organising outings to the cinema and picnics. We even had a sports day last month. That was hilarious. Don’t worry – you’ll be part of the gang in no time. Miss Whitaker will be your boss. She might look like a dragon, but she’s really rather sweet. Oh, and we even have a social club where they hold the odd dance. One word of warning, though – the canteen food at Hursley Park is vile.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ Sarah jumped down from the wall. ‘Now, shall we explore some more?’

  ‘Certainly, my lady. Your wish is my command.’

  8

  15th September 1941, Hursley Park

  It was Monday morning and Sarah’s first day at Supermarine. She surveyed the wood-panelled office with admiration. Much like the rest of the house she’d seen so far, it was beautifully decorated, contrasting sharply with the utilitarian office furniture. She would have loved to have caught a glimpse of the original antiques that must have been here before, but she assumed those items were stored somewhere safe until the war was over.

  The window afforded a view of the parkland, lush and green with a stand of oak trees in the distance. The grounds were extensive, Uncle Tom had told her, housing many different departments both in the outbuildings and in the huts hidden beneath the vast woodland canopy. Her aunt had mentioned that Lady Cooper, the widowed owner, was still in residence, occupying the upper floor of the mansion, and was often to be seen about the place.

  ‘This all seems in order, Miss Gillespie,’ her manager, Miss Whitaker, said, pulling Sarah’s attention back into the room. The lady looked up from Sarah’s paperwork, which lay in front of her on the desk. Her steel-grey hair was pulled back in a severe style. Silver-framed spectacles only emphasised her stern gaze.

  ‘Your previous experience in an architect’s office will be invaluable, of course. Most of the girls sent to us lately are fresh from school and don’t know one end of a sheet of tracing cloth from another.’ Miss Whitaker glanced down again and frowned. ‘Your uncle has vouched for you and I hold Mr Lambe in high esteem. We have been colleagues and friends for many years.’ The dour gaze was once more directed at Sarah. ‘I would be very disappointed if you were to prove unworthy of his trust.’

  Unsure how to respond, Sarah gave her a half-hearted smile and shifted on her feet. ‘I’ll do my best, Miss Whitaker. I’m grateful for the opportunity to work here.’

  ‘One final thing, Miss Gillespie. Security on these premises is, of necessity, tight. The work you will do is vital to the war effort. Please don’t forget that. It is only fair to warn you that we carry out periodic checks to ensure staff are not removing secrets
from the buildings. We also discourage discussing your work with anyone except your immediate colleagues. As the posters say, Miss Gillespie, careless talk costs lives. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sarah answered.

  ‘Hmm,’ was the reply. Miss Whitaker rose from her chair. ‘Come, I’ll introduce you to the girls and show you to your desk.’ Sarah grabbed her bag and coat and followed the lady down a long corridor. Stopping halfway down, Miss Whitaker pointed to a door. ‘You may leave your coat and bag in there. We allow nothing of that nature in the Tracing Room for security reasons. Quickly now, pop your things inside.’

  Sarah soon returned to the corridor to find Miss Whitaker standing outside a room further down. A plaque on the door said ‘Tracing Office’. Sarah joined her by the door, and as they were about to go in, Miss Whitaker paused with her hand on the handle. ‘One further thing, Miss Gillespie. If you meet Lady Cooper, remember to be polite. She still lives in the house but keeps to herself. This was her morning room,’ she continued, before opening the door.

  They stepped into a sizeable room with long sash windows overlooking the grounds. It was a fabulous space, Sarah could see, despite the rows of drawing boards. She could imagine the Cooper family sitting around their breakfast table in years gone by. It was a far cry from her humble origins in Dublin. The walls were pale blue with white floor-length panels containing delicate oblong and oval motifs of dancing figures against raised blue backgrounds. Sarah had seen nothing like them.

  ‘They are rather splendid, are they not, Miss Gillespie?’ Miss Whitaker said, waving towards the nearest panel. ‘Those are priceless Wedgwood panels.’ Sarah had never heard of Wedgwood, but she thought the figures were delightful.

  The desks were occupied by young women and the eyes of each now swivelled to look at the newcomer with curiosity. A middle-aged lady with a round face and bright blue eyes sat at a desk at the top of the room. Miss Whitaker made straight for her.

  ‘This is Miss Sugden, your supervisor,’ Miss Whitaker said to Sarah. ‘My right-hand woman.’