Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

‘So you are staying in Lisbon?’

‘For a while,’ she replied, without really knowing how long.

Hilda closed her eyes, wondering if she had already said too much. She was not wrong.

‘Perhaps you are on a government mission?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ she replied.

He threw her a quizzical glance over his shoulder and the conversation died.

She found a blanket under her seat and wrapped it around her, clasping her hands under for warmth. The altitude brought them nearer the sun, but it was not warm in the aircraft. However, before long the regular rhythm of the vibrating propellers relaxed her and made her drowsy. They did not speak for some time.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes. I was almost asleep.’

‘Good idea. Not for me though.’

She smiled at his humour. She placed her life in his hands and soon dozed off more successfully.

When she woke, Werner informed her that they were about to leave Italian airspace, and were now flying west, along the coast of Sicily. They would drop altitude soon and pass south along the Spanish coast.

The sun-washed bays and sun-flecked waves of the Mediterranean were only familiar to Hilda from the books she had treasured during her Forres childhood. Now they shone and sparkled beneath the plane, oblivious to the war. She wondered if the hostilities would ever reach as far as the colonies of France in North Africa, or the multitude of countries that formed the British Empire. She had a dreadful thought: perhaps the war would come to Africa, thus enabling Germany to reclaim its former territories in Trans Togoland, Mozambique and South West Africa. Recolonizing would not be a welcome move now that the Empire’s many countries were beginning to strain at the leash and hanker after independence, as indeed were the French colonies. She wondered if India would supply Britain with men and materials, as it had done in great quantities during the previous war. Would Australia see it as a purely European war this time? How lonely we might be, she thought.

The afternoon turned to early evening, and soon it was dark. The remainder of the flight was uneventful, and when she reached Lisbon airport she was pleased to be on firm ground again. They landed after eight o’clock, and a German embassy car met Hilda. The warmth of the air surprised her as the car entered the embassy grounds. Crickets clicked and frogs sounded their bass notes from the borders of the garden. At first, she thought there had been a party that evening. All the lights were on at the embassy, and the place was a hive of activity. She was not sure what was happening, but Portuguese staff was under instruction to take boxes of various sizes to different vehicles. She thought it best not to inquire. It may have been something to do with the heightened tensions of war, despite this ambassadorial posting to be far from the current hostilities.

She alighted from the car at the steps. The driver took her cases to the hallway, where Ambassador Wilhelm Klee greeted her and welcomed her to Portugal. ‘Frau Richter, I am delighted to see you have arrived safely. You must be tired, hungry too. Let me take you through to see what we can find. It must have been a long flight.’

‘Your Excellency, I know you have been well informed, and that you’re aware why I am here, but do you know the name I shall go under?’

The Ambassador stopped in his tracks.

‘Forgive me Miss Campbell, of course. Knowing you were the widow of Dr Willy Richter, and I myself being a Hamburg born man, my memory slipped into the past. Dr Richter was a fine doctor and a wonderful man. I was glad to have been his patient.’

She smiled as he brought back happy memories of Willy. ‘He certainly was a fine man. So I see we have a common thread.’

‘Yes, we have indeed. All the same, I must send you on your way tomorrow. There are eyes and ears around. Lisbon has a nest of spies. First, though some food. Then you will be taken to your room. With the war under way, we have been rearranging things here. Do excuse the noise and confusion. We expect our numbers to increase soon. We are making room for the new arrivals.’

‘Numbers?’ she asked.

‘There will be more like you, I suspect. We have a greater need for our own eyes and ears than ever before.’

Despite the bustle around the house, the feather mattress relaxed her weary body. Her dreams started with the excitement about the new life to come and then dwelt on the horror at the prospect of being sucked into the emerging Nazi war machine outside Germany, and far from home in Scotland.

The following morning, after breakfasting on black bread and scrambled eggs, she left the embassy without any farewells. A local taxi took her bags and they set off north along the coast. Waves dashed against stout Atlantic boulders and gulls shrieked and dived low out of sight, reappearing and soaring playfully. A few puffed-up clouds dotted the sky but the warm sun soon burned them away. The smell of fish caught her nostrils; while donkeys pulled boxes of anchovies along the side of the road.

Eventually, they came to the fishing port of Peniche, which lay at the bottom of a high basalt cliff. The road bent and twisted down to the harbour, which sheltered several fishing boats in the Portuguese national colours of red and green. It was a busy fishing village, with a rather large harbour. Some women could be seen mending the numerous nets laid out to dry on the quay, throwing away any trapped seaweed at the same time. In the distance, small fishing boats were fighting the waves to get home in time for lunch. There were shops selling bread and other provisions, clothes too. Perhaps she needed a change of wardrobe. She certainly planned to try to look local, and the shop would be interesting to see.

‘You should go into the village to meet the people. They will be very interested in you,’ said the driver. ‘Not far now.’

He drove on another mile or so then he turned off the road. The car slowed down on the uneven ground and she saw her new home, perched almost on the top of the cliff. The location offered a spectacular view over the sea. She climbed out of the car and found a pathway leading from the dwelling towards the cliff. It veered to the right then began to drop. She peered over the end to see the most wonderful sandy beach below with a steep path leading down to it. Not a soul was on the sand. The only movement was from the gigantic waves pounding the foreshore and running up the beach, nibbling the sand. She took a deep breath of sea air, then another. It was so refreshing and the war seemed so far away.

Her driver deposited her cases in the cottage and she paid him with some of the local currency from the allowance the ambassador had arranged for her. Inside on the kitchen table was a loaf of bread, some tins of sardines in tomato sauce, more in salt water and yet more in light garlic oil. Her bedroom was at the side of the house. From the window, she could see her nearest neighbours’ cottage some four hundred yards away. She wondered how long it would be before she made their acquaintance.

There was a radio on the sideboard. She tuned in, searching for a British frequency. Eventually she found London’s Home Service and learned that the country was preparing for war. She had missed most of the broadcast, so she searched for the Light Programme instead and found Henry Hall’s music once more. Much as she enjoyed the music, she instinctively lowered the volume, but raised it again almost immediately. After all, what would mark her as being more quintessentially British than to be found listening to Henry Hall? She turned the volume down a little, all the same, in case someone came to complain. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her very first Portuguese visitor arrived, with a plaintive meow. The dark glossy black cat with four white socks slowly walked towards her and circled around her legs. ‘Come here, come here to Hilda,’ she said, wondering where it had come from.