Her Secret War Page 8

Rob wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘Calculating weekly wages isn’t all that heroic. I’d much rather be fighting somewhere like my older brother.’

  Sarah longed to ask him why he couldn’t enlist, but it was hardly polite on such a brief acquaintance. ‘How much longer will we have to stay here do you think?’ Sarah asked instead.

  As if on cue, the all-clear sounded. ‘You see, false alarm,’ Rob said. ‘I’ll take you back to the Ritz. I’m sure your cousin will be worried and wondering what happened to you.’ He frowned down at her. ‘He should take better care of you.’

  ‘Oh no, he does. He mustn’t have realised I didn’t follow them out.’

  Rob nodded. ‘It can be chaotic when the sirens go off. People panic. I’m afraid our entertainment is over. It’s unlikely they will restart the film at this stage. Tickets should be good for another showing though.’

  ‘I hope so. I was enjoying the picture. Thanks, Rob, and sorry to have been such a coward.’ Sarah took his proffered arm as they clambered out of the shelter and up onto the grass.

  ‘Not at all, and I don’t think you are a coward. Most people would react the same if they had gone through what you have. Besides, I’m always happy to help a damsel in distress.’ Rob paused, smiling down at her. ‘Would the damsel care to go out for a drink with me next Saturday?’

  Sarah didn’t hesitate. ‘The damsel would.’

  10

  27th September 1941, Hursley Park

  It was Saturday lunchtime. Sarah strolled down to the main entrance of Hursley Park with Gladys and Ruth, both girls teasing her about her upcoming date with Rob McArthur. Despite her protestations that the date was only a drink and a chat, they would not let up – to the point that she wanted to scream. Gladys hinted that he had something of a reputation and seemed to be inordinately fond of the Tracing Room girls, which Ruth vigorously denied, leaving Sarah confused. With a promise to give them all the details on Monday morning, she parted company with them at the military hut at the entrance to the grounds. The girls dashed off to catch the bus back to Winchester.

  Spotting her Uncle Tom on the path just ahead, Sarah called out: ‘Uncle Tom, wait for me!’

  Her uncle turned and smiled as he waited for her. ‘Did you have a good morning, Sarah?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Busy as usual. And you?’

  Tom nodded as they fell into step. ‘The work has ratcheted up in the last few weeks. There are new marks of Spitfire being planned all the time.’

  ‘Why are there so many versions? The way my friend Paul talked about it, the Spitfire is already the epitome of perfection.’

  Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘Is this the lad who has enlisted?’ Sarah nodded. ‘He’ll soon find out the RAF is always tinkering with the design. But with good reason: they need different modifications for specific uses. Sometimes it is only minute changes, or it might be a substantial redesign if the RAF request, say, bigger engines, or want to use the plane for an alternative purpose, such as surveillance. Then cameras are fitted to the wings and that has a knock-on effect on wing design. You’ll see new drawings coming through all the time to the tracing team. At the moment, I’m working on the Mark VII. Miss Whitaker will get those drawings soon for you ladies to work on.’

  ‘What happens after the tracings go to the printers?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Once the instruction manual is printed, the lads in the Experimental Hangar down at the south entrance build the prototype, which then has to be tested by an RAF pilot over at Worthy Down.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard the engines being revved up, but I wasn’t sure what was happening down there.’

  ‘They are busy lads, let me tell you. Anyway, if the prototype passes, it goes into production. But that entails the manufacture of new jigs and tools. The process is never quick enough for the RAF, I’m afraid.’

  Sarah was impressed. ‘Do the constant changes not put pressure on resources? Are they always necessary?’

  ‘That’s debatable! But what the RAF wants, it gets.’

  ‘There is so much involved in the process, and so many people! I wish I knew more about the planes. The drawings I have been working on so far are complicated, but I believe the Dra— Miss Whitaker is happy with my work.’

  Uncle Tom guffawed. ‘Do they still call her that? How naughty!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sarah replied meekly.

  ‘Not at all; in fact, she knows that’s her nickname. She’s rather proud of it, I think.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Nearly all the long-term staff have monikers of one sort or another.’

  ‘What’s yours?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Tom asked with a grin. She shook her head. ‘Chops!’

  ‘Why on earth … Oh, I see … lamb chops.’

  ‘I think it’s rather good, don’t you? Better than Paddy or Mick any day. But we are insulated from that nonsense here in Hursley. It was different down in Southampton. Tiresome stuff on the whole – hopefully you never encounter it.’

  Sarah recalled the incident at the station in Southampton and smiled sadly. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘The problem is they have short memories. They seem to forget it was the Irish navvies who built the London underground and half the buildings in every city in the country. Ah, sure, there has always been animosity to some extent, but now with Ireland staying neutral, there’s resentment too. Not sure I agree with the stance, myself.’

  ‘I definitely don’t, Uncle,’ she said.

  ‘That I can understand; but you see, most English don’t appreciate the history, or can’t be bothered to learn about it. In fairness to them, it is irrelevant to their lives. The ordinary English working man had little to do with Ireland’s woes.’

  ‘My father would not have agreed with you on that, Uncle Tom. He was always going on about the Black and Tans and how vicious they were.’

  ‘They were a small minority, Sarah, and them half-crazed after the Great War. Shell-shocked, most of them.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Not that I’m excusing what they did, for those boyos perpetrated some terrible things in the name of the Crown, but the likes of your father returned the compliment whenever possible, and in his case, with great relish.’

  ‘You knew Da was involved in all that?’

  ‘On the few occasions I met him, he wasn’t shy about discussing it or showing his anti-British prejudices. There’s still many like him, as I’m sure you know,’ he said.

  ‘Is that why I was vetted so thoroughly before I could be taken on? Because I’m Irish? Could they have known about Da’s past?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I’d say it was likely. But it’s understandable considering where we are working. We are dealing with secrets which will win us the war, my dear. It isn’t personal.’

  ‘No, I understand. Miss Whitaker was very vocal on that point; that I wasn’t to discuss my work with anyone, even in other departments.’

  ‘Not even with your favourite uncle?’ he asked, eyes wide in mock horror.

  Sarah laughed. ‘Not even with him.’ Tom smiled and they walked on. Sarah continued: ‘I have noticed how each department keeps pretty much to themselves during the day.’

  ‘Yes, that is encouraged. Careless talk, and all that.’ Tom halted and gave her a knowing look. ‘Except I’ve heard of late that a certain lad in Wages is keen to get to know a tracing girl, eh?’

  Sarah stifled a giggle. ‘Did Martin tell you?’

  Uncle Tom took her arm and they walked on. ‘Aye, and it’s hardly surprising that my pretty niece has attracted attention.’

  ‘I’m meeting Rob McArthur later in the King’s Head. It’s only a drink, nothing serious.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Good for you.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked, a few yards further on.

  ‘Well, as far as I am aware, he only joined Supermarine just before we left Southampton. I have little interaction with that section, but he seems a nice enough lad. Though I do recall one morning finding him in the Drawing Office. H
e’d lost his way in the grounds, he said, and I had to direct him back to Southend House. All apologies he was. Seemed a nice enough young man.’ Tom frowned at her. ‘But remember; should there be any trouble you come straight to me or Martin, do you hear?’

  Sarah squeezed her uncle’s arm in gratitude. ‘Thank you.’ How different Uncle Tom was to Da. He had never shown the least interest in her safety. And didn’t he prove that tenfold the night the bombs fell. Already she felt at home in the Lambe household. If only poor Maura could have experienced it, she thought, sadly. She would have fitted in here so perfectly.

  Tom glanced up at the sky. ‘’Tis a fine day! I think I shall do some work in the garden after lunch. Did you have a victory garden in Dublin?’

  ‘No. Some of our neighbours grew potatoes and onions. Mr Nugent a few doors up used to take pity on us and share some of his veg. Da had no interest in growing things. Maura tried to persuade Da to let her … but he wasn’t keen. He had some strange notions about us getting our hands dirty. So silly.’

  ‘That’s a shame. It’s a great way to relax after a day bent over a drawing board, I can tell you.’

  ‘Have you always been an avid gardener?’

  Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘Not at all! I only started out of necessity when rationing began. But I soon found I enjoyed it immensely; particularly being out in the fresh air. Alice was finding it difficult to get decent vegetables in the shops, so she’s delighted I’ve developed green fingers. I had to leave a lovely patch of garden in Southampton but sure I have a much bigger one here. It all worked out very well, you see, because we had to dig out a big patch for the Anderson Shelter and I was able to use some of the soil to make raised beds for my veg.’

  ‘Have you used the shelter yet?’ she asked, suddenly anxious.

  ‘No, not even once. I check it once a week to make sure all’s right and tight.’ Tom winked at her. ‘It’s the perfect temperature. I have a couple of cases of porter stored in there, in case of emergencies, of course. However, it’s unlikely we will ever use the shelter. Jerry tends not to bomb villages in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Unless they find out about Supermarine,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Don’t you worry; that’s highly unlikely. The huts in the grounds are well camouflaged or hidden under the trees. They’d be difficult to spot from the air. Now, would you care to join me in the garden for a while before the big date this evening? I could do with some help with the weeding and the spuds won’t harvest themselves.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Sarah replied.

  ‘Do they fit?’ Uncle Tom asked, looking down at Sarah’s feet clad in Martin’s boots.

  ‘They are far too big, but I have three pairs of socks on. And Aunty Alice gave me this old jumper of yours,’ she said. The Aran sweater was huge on her, swamping her small frame. Sarah stamped her feet and grinned. ‘Will I do?’

  Tom broke into a chuckle: ‘A regular land girl! Come on, you need to earn the title.’ He headed down the path.

  The garden was long and narrow, edged by stone walls and ancient trees. Every available inch of ground had something growing in it. Mystified as to what any of it was, Sarah followed her uncle down to the end of the garden where the Anderson Shelter was located. He turned around, swept out his arms and breathed in deeply. ‘Isn’t it grand? I’m rather proud of how much we have grown. Alice rarely buys vegetables now. I even have room to grow a few flowers to brighten the place up.’

  Sarah followed his gaze, taking in the rows of plants and the raised beds bordered by planks of timber. It was all neat and tidy, testament to the hours her uncle put into the garden’s upkeep. ‘You will have to teach me, I’m afraid. I don’t have a clue what anything is or what I should do.’

  ‘I’ll make a gardener out of you yet, missy, wait and see. Right, you can start by weeding between the rows of parsnips over there. Here’s a wee trowel and a trug; you can put the weeds into that. The parsnips are the bright green broad-leaved plants, the other blighters in between are the weeds.’

  Sarah hunkered down, pushing back the leaves of what she hoped was a parsnip. ‘Shall I take this out?’ she asked, pointing to a yellow-flowered plant lurking beneath.

  ‘Aye, now be careful you don’t disturb the roots of the parsnip. I’m looking forward to tasting ’em with a few roast spuds some Sunday.’

  ‘When do you harvest them?’ she asked, as Tom started on the next row.

  ‘Well, you see, the trick with those boyos is to leave them in the ground to be frosted – they have a much sweeter taste then.’

  They worked along their rows for several minutes in silence. Sarah found her rhythm and enjoyed the work. As she looked up from a parsnip, she caught a wistful glance from Tom. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking of your mother. You are so like her, Sarah, it’s uncanny.’ He looked about the garden. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t grow veg at home. As children, we helped your grandfather with harvesting. Mind you, the soil was poor in Galway. Full of stones. The only fertiliser we had was seaweed, and we dreaded those days we had to go down to the shore and pick it. Back-breaking work, that was.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Sarah said, trying to visualise her mother lugging baskets of seaweed.

  ‘Thankfully, I have an arrangement with a local farmer who supplies me with manure in exchange for some of my veg. Isn’t it funny how we have fallen back on the old ways of bartering? Makes sense though, in times like this.’

  ‘Uncle Tom?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘How did my mother and father meet?’ she asked. ‘Ma never told us.’

  A shadow flitted across Tom’s features. He placed his trowel on the soil and sat back on his hunkers. ‘It was just before I left Galway. You know about your father’s involvement in the War of Independence?’

  ‘Yes, he spoke of it.’

  ‘Hmm, well he and some of his mates were active in the local area.’

  ‘But he was a Dub. What was he doing in the west?’ she asked.

  ‘Michael Collins sent him to head up a brigade in Galway.’

  ‘But why Da?’

  ‘Didn’t you know he was a Dublin Fusilier? Survived France and came back with valuable knowledge of how the British Army operated.’

  ‘I never knew that!’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t something he wanted people to know in later years: not good for his republican image.’

  ‘Of course not. But I find it hard to believe; he hated the British so much,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah, but like many of those who volunteered in 1914, your father had been blacklisted for striking during the Lockout the previous year. He had no hope of work and army pay was decent. Don’t forget, at the time everyone said the war would be short-lived. But Jim wasn’t home long from the front when he realised the public mood had swung in his absence, especially after all that happened in 1916. Now, he found he was a pariah in the eyes of many. However, Michael Collins needed men with the inside knowledge your father had gained. It wasn’t long before they had recruited him to the IRA ranks.’

  ‘So, when he came back to Ireland, he switched sides.’

  ‘Precisely, though I doubt he was ever loyal to anyone except Jim Gillespie. Anyway, he arrived in Galway out to prove himself. One day he and his flying column turned up at our farm. We’d had a visit from the Black and Tans the previous week, looking for information and generally being a nuisance. Your father wanted to know why they had picked on us. He coerced my father into giving his brigade refuge for a few nights in our hay shed. It was a guerrilla war, you see. They were lying low, waiting to ambush British soldiers who they believed were due to pass through our valley that week.’

  ‘And that’s when he met my mother.’

  Uncle Tom nodded as he picked up his trowel again. ‘Oh, we were all very impressed by him. Fine-looking man, full of talk and a man of the world.’ Tom’s expression hardened. ‘She fell for him, of course. Soon after, me and Alice left f
or England. It was only when we came back to Galway for your grandmother’s funeral that I met him again. And, I’ll be honest with you, love, I didn’t like him one bit. I was older and less likely to be impressed by talk at that stage. I remember remarking to Alice that he had changed, or more likely, he was showing his true colours at last. But what could I do? Your mother defended his behaviour and would not discuss him. Alice tried talking to her, but she was having none of it. My suspicion was that he wasn’t treating her well. She had changed; gone awful quiet, not like the lively girl she’d always been growing up.’

  Sarah blew out a slow breath, fighting back her tears. ‘No, he didn’t treat her well at all.’

  With an angry exclamation, Tom shoved his trowel into the soil before coming around to her row. ‘Ah, and it wasn’t just your mother, was it?’ She nodded. He knelt beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt you any longer.’ Unable to speak, all she could do was smile sadly. ‘You’re safe here with us, Sarah. I’m only sorry I didn’t do more to help ye, but I have every intention of making up for it by ensuring your life with us is as happy as possible. We have little, a stór, but we have each other, and we will always be here for you.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Here, take this and blow your nose, you daft thing.’ He handed her a clean handkerchief. ‘Now, those weeds need seeing to. Let’s get back to work!’

  11

  27th September 1941, Hursley

  Later that evening, as the hands of the clock crept forward, Sarah grew jittery. Uncle Tom’s teasing over dinner about Rob didn’t help matters. Martin on the other hand was remarkably restrained, though she could tell he was bursting to make a comment. Was that kindness, or was he waiting for the right opportunity to maximise his teasing? You could never quite tell with Martin.

  When the time came to get ready, she climbed the stairs slowly, chiding herself for being foolish. It was only a drink, so there was no reason for nerves. Rob was an attractive lad with a pleasant manner, so why wasn’t she excited about the evening ahead? She thought fleetingly of her first date with Paul. That night she had been so excited and almost sick with nerves on the bus into the city. Tonight she would gladly stay at home. What was different now?