Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

During the third act, Hilda regained consciousness and her dignity. She looked at the programme notes and caught up; fortunately, she was becoming familiar with the plot. By the time the curtain dropped for the last applause, she could honestly say she had enjoyed the evening, but above all it had been the pleasure of having Francis by her side. She laid her eyes on the side of his handsome face and smiled.

Francis walked her home in a dreamy mood.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she asked him.

‘I think we should visit St Paul’s Cathedral for our last day. What do you think?’

‘Inspirational thinking,’ she said.

‘Matins or Eucharist?’

‘Steady, Francis, I’m a Scottish Presbyterian with leanings towards Luther. I’m not used to high Anglicanism. Not sure when to stand, kneel or pray.’

He laughed. ‘I’ll be with you to show you the ropes. Moreover, the Church of England will not turn anyone away, especially now, with so many troops in town with spiritual needs.’

They lingered under the gas lamppost outside her accommodation for a few minutes. Francis seemed deep in thought once more. With the insight of the Scottish Highlander, she knew he was about to ask a question.

‘After Nurernberg, will you come to Helsinki to visit?’

‘I’d love to. In fact, the clear air of Helsinki might help me to sort myself out after the trial. Then, who knows? Perhaps everything will be resolved, and I will decide which path in life to take.’

‘I hope so too,’ he said.

On their last morning together, they entered St Paul’s Cathedral, which stood tall and undamaged by Axis bombs, a symbol of defiance, a centre of hope and a place of worship and prayer. The incumbent offered prayers and the bishop brought them to their feet with hymns which were both stirring and reflective. They were all familiar, and Hilda enjoyed singing and hearing the tenor-baritone line of Francis’ fine voice once more. When the Eucharist was called, the bread broken and the wine transfigured, she followed Francis to the oak-barred rail. She knelt with her hands in a cupped fashion as she saw others do in preparation for the curate to come along the line and distributed wafers. Hers stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to dislodge it with her explorative tongue before the wine in its communal silver chalice was presented. A slight nudge from Francis and she was up and walking in line, back to their pew.

‘Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ he whispered.

After the benediction they stood to let the celebrants retire, and then to the heart-lifting melody of Henry Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary , they made their way out through the central aisle. They stopped at the door to shake hands with the bishop and gazed over a quiet Sunday morning London from the steps of the church. The city was at rest, and the strains of the organ and Purcell’s music remained in their ears and in Hilda’s toes. She had a sense of elation and looked forward to a memorable last day before Francis left.

Halfway down the steps, Francis took a couple of paces ahead. She thought he had tripped at first, but he turned and stood before her, blocking her way. He fumbled in his suit pocket and bent down on one knee.

He took her hand. She gasped in quiet astonishment. They had hardly left the church. She could barely believe what was happening, and would certainly never have imagined it in such a public place.

‘Hilda, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?’

Such a flux of emotion washed over her: a thrill of excitement, of acceptance, of wonder and of delight. She had received a proposal on the steps of St Paul’s, and those departing from the service stopped in their tracks in silence, awaiting her response. The departing church attendees and anyone in close proximity heard her reply to Francis, for it was not a whisper.

‘Francis, of course I will. I will marry you, my darling.’

Francis rose, and from his pocket, he produced an engagement ring. It shone in the sunlight. He placed it on her finger and it slipped easily into position; he had chosen exactly the right size. She drew him close and, there and then, they sealed their betrothal with a close embrace and kiss, oblivious to all the applause and cheering of those behind and beside them.

She was engaged to be married, and so very happy to be so. She wore her ring proudly. Her first disappointment was that she had no family with which to share this special moment of joy. Her second was her wish to stay in London until the trial in Nuremberg was over. Francis noticed her sudden sadness and understood it.

‘I can wait. I know how concerned you are about this trial. But let me say, when it’s over, it is a new life you will have, Hilda. One I want to share with you forever. I am your family now. You will never be alone again.’

Hilda smiled. Although Sir Frances was heading for Helsinki the next day, she knew he would wait for her.

The morning dawned, and their last moments together for some time approached. A few European flights taxied to depart from the new Heathrow airport. Then they saw a Scandinavian airliner parked at gate 8.

They had time to say a lingering goodbye. Hilda had not taken her engagement ring off since the moment Francis had placed it on her finger for all to see; its purpose was to ward off any suitors, she told herself – a silly thought really, as Francis was the only one to approach her since she had been widowed.

She watched his plane lift off safely, move into the clouds and become a fly in the sky. When it was out of sight, she made her way back to her flat at MI6.

‘Many congratulations, Hilda. Have you chosen the wedding day?’ asked a delighted Thornton.

‘What? We have not even decided on the venue. I will be leaving here though, as soon as the trial is over.’

Thornton looked over his hornbill glasses. ‘I assume you won’t be returning to live in Germany?’

‘No, that’s quite out of the question now. It will be Helsinki initially, after that, who knows? We might be sent anywhere in the world until Sir Francis retires. After that, I expect we will settle in the Cotswolds.’

‘Ah, God’s country,’ said Thornton, his eyes glowing dreamy.

‘That’s where you are from?’ she asked.

‘No, but I have a sister who lives there with her husband, so I know it well. It is peaceful. Quiet rural lanes and many thatched cottages.’ Thornton waxed lyrical.

She looked through the window with unfocused eyes. ‘How wonderful to have a family once more.’

‘Have you no regrets at all about leaving Germany?’ Thornton asked.

He touched a raw nerve, but she forgave him. She owed much to Thornton. ‘Regrets? No. I have memories, wonderful memories that no one can take away from me. Moreover, the memory of my first meeting Sir Francis was in Hamburg of course. However, Germany has nothing to offer me now except grief. My future will be wherever Francis is.’

‘Er… marrying Sir Francis, you know what that means, don’t you?’ asked a grinning Thornton.

Hilda was flummoxed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, no longer Hilda Campbell, no longer Hilda Richter, so I must bow to… Lady Hilda Shepherd, soon.’

In truth, Hilda had not even thought about this. Coming from Thornton it did have credence, however. Nevertheless, marriage was still to come first and Sir Francis had not mentioned this inevitable title. She smiled at Thornton. ‘I suppose so,’ was all she could muster.

She walked over to the window and looked out on to the street. ‘Such a contrast Hamburg and London now are. One regaining its glory and one about to build itself again.’