The Spies of Shilling Lane, page 16
So why were they sending her to Devon? And then Scotland!
She hadn’t joined MI5 just to sit in a backwater killing time. What about her reputation? Her father had been proud of her when she let on to him that she was doing “something a little bit more special” for the war effort. Hadn’t he given her a handshake, as if he finally recognized her as an adult?
“You’re a credit to me, Betty,” he had said, his eyes glimmering charmingly at her. “I always knew that you would go far.”
Yet what about now? She hadn’t heard from him in months.
“Maybe Mum was right,” she said to herself. “And he just tried to get us to believe he cared when he simply didn’t. It doesn’t matter how special a job I have, or what I do at all.”
He had all the charm, but underneath, despite all of Mrs. Braithwaite’s blustering and pomposity, she was the one who had cared.
“It was Mum who came to rescue me, after all.”
She thought of her mother, trapped somewhere, Briggs and Marty harassing her, threatening her, waiting for Mr. Cummerbatch to find an available operative—who knew nothing about the case and would therefore need to be prepared before going out—to send out on a rescue mission.
She glowered at the thought.
“It’s no use,” she said out loud, with a new determination. “I have to find her.”
Betty had been with MI5 long enough to know that the first thing to do in any given situation was to assess the risks, and her big risk at the moment was that she would land herself in trouble with MI5 for disobeying orders and going back out into the field.
The thought made her blood quicken its pace. She got up and covered her hair with a head scarf.
Regardless of the risks, she couldn’t just sit back and wait to hear the fate of her mother. She had come to rescue Betty, and Betty had to do likewise.
“If I’m going to find her,” she said with determination as she found some clean clothes and began to change, “I need to find the only person who knows where she could be.”
Baxter.
Baxter would be aware of the gang’s hideouts. He might even know where they’d taken her. She could check each place until she found her.
It would work.
There was, of course, another reason why she wanted to see Baxter. A smile swept briefly across her face as she remembered the way he’d look at her, the musky smell of him, and the softness of his lips, his skin.
Betty had always been a logical, practical sort of girl. “No nonsense” was how they used to describe her at school, and she had liked the sound of that.
So, naturally, it did not sit well with her when she met a man who made her feel somehow illogical. Right from the first time she met him, she’d experienced a whirl of feelings that sent her completely out of control.
She couldn’t wait to see him.
Baxter would have been forced to move house after her mother had followed him. Betty was relieved that they had, many months before, arranged a plan for how to exchange coded messages so that each would always know where the other was.
“The telephone box outside St. Paul’s Cathedral,” he had said. “It’s perfect. Easy to get to, and always open. We can leave a small note in the telephone directory”—he’d paused—“under F for Freud.” A smile had played on his lips. He loved these new ideas, different ways of looking at the world. All the books, the ideas, the breaking free of normal thought. Was that why she loved him?
Betty had asked Mr. Norris about Freud when she’d got home that night. He’d given her that gentle smile of his and explained that “Freud believed that our childhood has a big influence on our adult life, making us into the people we are. It’s terribly clever, really,” he went on, and then proceeded to describe the theory behind it, how the id and the ego lurked behind our every decision. The clock on the mantelpiece had passed midnight before she went up to bed, ideas marauding around her mind, disturbing the dust within the shadowy crevices.
She pulled on her raincoat and ran down the stairs of the boardinghouse. Now that she was set on her course, she could hardly wait to see Baxter.
She was defying Cummerbatch’s orders utterly and completely. The train ticket to Devon weighed heavily at the bottom of her bag, and she felt like an errant schoolgirl escaping from detention.
But she didn’t care.
It was as if her whole life had come down to this moment.
29.
The crypt was packed, and worse, people were singing. Mrs. Braithwaite enjoyed a good singsong as much as the next person, but their choice of tunes was far from tasteful. “Roll Out the Barrel” was the first one, but because they ran out of words pretty quickly, they moved on to the delights of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” which would most certainly make one want to bring Tipperary a little closer should it relieve the necessity to sing about it.
Mr. Norris was busy finding a good spot for them to spend the night, an accomplishment he seemed to pride himself on, as he said to her, “Have no fear, Mrs. Braithwaite, I’ll have us settled in no time.”
“We’ve missed all the good spaces beside the wall,” she said with a huff.
“We would have had to be here hours ago to get one of those.” He sighed, adding, “But it’ll be nice and cozy, once we have our beds made up. You’ll see!”
They began laying the blankets on the floor at the end of a row, Mr. Norris straightening them out. “If everyone keeps their blankets straight, they can fit in more people,” he whispered. “The verger comes around to check. It isn’t good to have to turn people away.”
Mrs. Braithwaite said nothing. She was silently appalled. The place had the dank smell of death. There were tombs and catacombs on each side. Even below them, she realized with a horrified wail, the great stones on the floor were etched with the worn names of the deceased. The lines of blankets reminded her of lines of graves, the different colors in the half-light like the patchwork of flowers and grass covering the plots.
Death was a subject that Mrs. Braithwaite was not used to considering. Aunt Augusta had spoken of it as if it were a disagreeable event afflicting the lower classes, except of course when Queen Victoria herself passed away, which was more of a case of transcendence.
“But I don’t want to sleep on a dead person,” Mrs. Braithwaite snapped at Mr. Norris, looking around for a spot that might be free from writing.
He stopped smoothing out the blankets. “I know it’s not ideal, but you must believe me when I tell you that it’s far preferable to a public shelter. The stench alone is bound to put one off. Come on, help me with this sheet.”
She went back to spreading blankets with him, but a thought nagged her, and when they were finished, she sat mulling it over on their so-called beds.
“Do you think it’s immoral to lie on someone’s tomb?”
“Not really. I think if they knew, they wouldn’t think it so bad. After all, there is a war going on. In any case, we’re separated from them by a thick stone. I don’t think any skeletons are going to come out to murder you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He was laughing gently, taking out a flask and pouring hot tea into two cups.
“I don’t like thinking about death,” she said.
“Death is inevitable, though,” he said, thinking of his college friends who had perished in the last war. “To die early, and in a war, is a double tragedy: first, because you’ve only just begun to live, and second, because it’s evidence that human nature has turned on itself. But when I think of my old colleagues, I realize that death isn’t the part of life to fear the most. It is the fear of not living up to our true potential.”
“What precisely do you mean?”
“Sometimes, when I think about all the things I’ve been afraid to do, I remember my friends brimming with excitement as they left for the last war.” He recoiled at the thought, and Mrs. Braithwaite was rather startled to see his eyes glossing over. “They had more excitement for life than I ever did, even though they didn’t live for long.” He looked at his hands.
Mrs. Braithwaite frowned with incomprehension. “That’s all well and good, but frankly, I’d rather think about being alive. Life is for the living, and all that.”
“Haven’t you ever had someone close to you die?”
“My parents died,” she said quietly, and then added in her usual way, “But I was very young.”
“What happened?” He edged a little closer to her.
“There was an accident at sea—we were on a ship bound for France, and it struck rocks just off the south coast. I was rescued, but I nearly died from pneumonia. I was alone in the hospital for a week before Aunt Augusta claimed me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Norris said. “What happened to your parents?”
“They were drowned,” she said rather matter-of-factly. Then she added, “They weren’t good parents, though, according to Aunt Augusta, so it’s probably just as well.”
“But—” Mr. Norris gasped. “They were your parents! Didn’t you care about them? I sometimes wonder if we need to understand where we came from to feel our way forward. How can you expect a plant to grow if you cut off its roots?”
“It’s better not to think about it.” She briskly began sweeping unseen dust from her blanket.
“Do you think that, possibly, your aunt, with all the best intentions, told you that you were better off with her than with your real parents so that you felt that you belonged with her more?” Mr. Norris said carefully.
“I have to say, Mr. Norris, that I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” she snapped. “Thinking is a very overrated pastime, and some of us are far too busy putting the world to rights to be wasting our time over such things.”
“But sometimes we need to mull everything over, find out what we really feel, or think, or believe. Sometimes, if you don’t think about big things that happen in our lives—people close to you dying and so forth—it gets bottled up inside. One day you might just explode.”
“I’ll do no such thing, thank you very much!” she retorted, tidying the blanket.
But the conversation seemed to have tipped Mr. Norris into a thoughtful mode, and he said rather philosophically, “When people you care for die, something inside changes, and you become a different person. Some say that you take on a part of them yourself, that everything you loved about them is enveloped within you, that you have a responsibility to keep them alive in your heart, whatever it takes.”
Mrs. Braithwaite felt a stir inside her, but if she let the tiniest amount of daylight into that part of her mind, a flood of memories would play back about that dismal night.
“Aunt Augusta instructed me not to think about it,” she snapped, wishing he’d change the subject.
“And have you always done what Aunt Augusta wanted?” he said gently.
Mrs. Braithwaite looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes. I mean, I did. Mostly. Betty said today that her rules were cruel.” She closed her eyes as she struggled with a thought. “But Aunt Augusta was the one who lived long enough to bring me up. My parents, well, they left me. Aunt Augusta was good enough to take me in, raise me as her own daughter. That alone shows what an upright person she was.”
“But it doesn’t necessarily mean that. Perhaps she always wanted a child of her own, and your parents’ death conveniently provided her with one?”
“Perhaps you should mind your own business. Aunt Augusta was the first to admit that she’d always wanted a daughter, that I was heaven-sent for her to look after as if I were her own. She gave up everything for me.”
“How old were you when your parents died?”
“I was six.” She looked at the floor, starting to feel cross. “You see, that’s what happens when one begins to think about death. It all gets out of hand.”
They drank their tea in silence, until a kerfuffle in the corner of the crypt made them turn to see Cassandra, incongruous with her full makeup and tan coat. She was trying to squeeze a blanket into a small space between two middle-aged women, who were clearly suggesting that there wasn’t enough room.
Mr. Norris leaned over. “I told you she’d be here. Let’s go and see if we can help,” he said, getting up. “Then perhaps we can ask her some questions.”
Mrs. Braithwaite raised herself from the ground, hoping that Mr. Norris might turn her way and see that she needed a hand to help her up, but he had gone to see the scene unfolding in the corner, and she was left to wriggle up by herself.
Cassandra was becoming vexed with the older ladies beside her. “There’s a silly little man at the door who said that I can’t stay unless there’s room, and this is the only place that’s left.”
“There’s not enough space here,” one of the women said. “You’ll have to find another spot.”
“Cassandra!” Mr. Norris called over. “Why don’t you come and squash in beside us?”
Cassandra turned around, her mouth turning from a smirk as she saw Mr. Norris to a scowl as she registered Mrs. Braithwaite.
“That’s very kind, isn’t it?” one of the women said, scooping up Cassandra’s blanket and shoving it into Mr. Norris’s arms.
“The verger’s very particular,” Mr. Norris explained to Cassandra. “We have to work out what’s best for everyone. You don’t want to be sent away, do you?” He consulted his wristwatch. “You won’t have any luck at this time of night. You’ll have no choice but to go to the local shelter.”
Cassandra snorted a large breath of stale air. “I’d rather face the bombs than go down there.” She picked up her expensive-looking handbag and left her other belongings for Mr. Norris to carry. “I suppose I’ll come with you,” she said rather impolitely, then remembering herself, she tucked her arm through his and gave him a charming smile, adding, “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
What about me? Mrs. Braithwaite thought. And the space that I’m giving up?
They made their way back to their blankets, and Mr. Norris began repositioning them to fit Cassandra in the middle.
But as far as Mrs. Braithwaite was concerned, one thing was for certain: Cassandra was not going to be beside her.
“Perhaps Cassandra should go on the other side of you, Mr. Norris,” she barked, more an instruction than a request.
“Oh, all right then,” he muttered, changing them around again, reorganizing their blankets in the narrow space.
Just as Mrs. Braithwaite was about to suggest that it was simply too tight and Cassandra would have to find another spot, Mr. Norris expressed great thanks to her for generously sharing her space.
“You are a very helpful person, aren’t you, Mrs. Braithwaite?”
She smiled weakly. She knew Mr. Norris was being generous: she wasn’t quite as helpful as she perhaps would like to be. But maybe she could change, had changed.
Cassandra leaned over and smirked as she sat down, her legs curled underneath her, looking like a cat that had got a choice position beside the fire. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Braithwaite. Perhaps you’re not so sour after all.”
Then she let out a little tinkle of laughter, and Mrs. Braithwaite didn’t quite know whether it was a joke or not.
“I must say that I’m surprised to see you here, Cassandra,” she said cuttingly. “You seem to be out every night. Heaven knows what you must be doing!”
“You’re right! I usually am,” Cassandra replied, not at all taken aback; in fact, she grinned knowingly, proud to be a party girl. “But tonight I went to meet a friend”—she said it in that way that denoted something more than a friend—“only he didn’t show up, which is most unlike him. He’s passionate about me.” But furrows appeared on her beautiful forehead. “I hope nothing horrid has happened to him.”
“How awful for you,” Mr. Norris said.
“He’s a navigator in the RAF, so—”
“Perhaps he changed his mind and decided not to meet you after all,” Mrs. Braithwaite said crisply, still dwelling on having been called “sour.” Yet it struck her that the girl seemed genuinely upset, that this young man could be more than a passing dalliance, so she added, “For good reason, of course.”
“You might be right,” Cassandra murmured, almost to herself. And it struck Mrs. Braithwaite that she suddenly looked like a little girl, alone and lost, missing her friend. How odd that she made such an effort to be churlish when inside she was just a human being, like everyone else.
Could she be involved with the fascists?
“We’re still looking for Betty.” Mr. Norris plunged in. “And I wonder, did you know Betty’s boyfriend well?”
“Not awfully. I only met him that once when I bumped into them outside the Pendulum. They were in a hurry, and he didn’t charm me, although I suspect Betty wanted to quell his excitement after meeting me.” She gave a small giggle.
“Why’s that?” Mr. Norris asked naively.
“Oh, many women don’t like their men being around me for too long.” She gave Mr. Norris her smoldering look to prove her point, and he in return dropped his glasses with utter terror. “They might have second thoughts.”
“But he didn’t fall for you, Betty’s young man?” Mrs. Braithwaite asked quickly as Mr. Norris began fumbling with the flask, not knowing quite where to look.
Cassandra looked petulant. “I have to admit that he didn’t. Although I wouldn’t have thought he was Betty’s type. Wonderful looking, of course, but the clothes! And he smelled to high heaven of something awful.”
Mrs. Braithwaite grimaced. “What would you say it was?”
“It was like decay. You know, that pungent smell of off meat.”
“Off meat,” Mr. Norris mused. “I don’t suppose he might have been working in a butcher’s shop?”
