Elizabeth Elgin - Windflower Wedding

‘Good. I speak the language passably well.’ Better than passably. Tatty’s governess, herself French, had seen to that such a long time ago, it seemed. When Keth Purvis had lived at Rowangarth bothy, it was; before the war when Rowangarth garden apprentices lived there and were looked after by his mother – and she glad of the job. ‘I don’t suppose I’d fool the locals, but I could get away with it with a German.’

‘Then let’s hope you don’t meet any. Oh – and you’ll have to see the photographer first thing in the morning. Your papers are ready, except for that. Better see the barber too. Your haircut looks a bit English, I’m afraid. Apart from that, there’s a resemblance to Gaston Martin about you.’

‘That’s whose ID I’ll be taking? A pretty ordinary name, isn’t it?’ The surname Martin was as common in France as Smith was in England.

‘Nevertheless, Gaston Martin does exist. He was invalided out of the French artillery just after Dunkirk. Deaf, in one ear – remember that. But you’ll be given details.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘He’s here, in the UK. He got taken off the beaches with our lot and our lot invalided him out. He’s working in North Wales, so you’re not likely to cross each other’s paths – not where you’ll be going, anyway.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Keth was glad of the brandy because ever since he’d been told about France, his stomach had felt distinctly queasy. He wondered if he would sleep tonight or lie awake turning it over in his mind, telling himself he was a damn fool.

Yet a bargain was a bargain. They had told him when he asked to be sent back to England there would be conditions attached and he accepted without a second thought; anything to get back to Daisy. But not in his craziest dreams had anything embraced cloak-and-dagger stuff, because that’s what this escapade boiled down to; downright bloody stupid, to put not too fine a point on it. Times like now, he could accept it – just. But how would he feel when they dumped him on some dark beach? Not very brave, he knew.

‘When it’s over and done with – well, what I’m trying to say is – when I’m back, what’s going to happen? To me, I mean.’

‘You’ll pick up where you left off – at Bletchley Park. I take it you don’t want to go back to Washington?’

‘I don’t! I’m only in this predicament now because I wanted to get home.’

‘Getting cold feet?’

‘Got! I’m not the stuff heroes are made out of, I’m afraid; but conditions They said, and conditions I accepted.’

‘Good. Only a fool isn’t – well, slightly afraid. And in SOE we don’t ask for heroes. We’d rather our operatives stayed alive. I hate sending women in, you know,’ he said gruffly, picking up the brandy bottle, asking, with a raising of his eyebrows, if Keth wanted another. And Keth, who drank little, nodded and pushed his glass across the table.

‘Good man. Help you to sleep. And don’t worry, we aren’t trying to recruit you.’

‘Then why now?’ Keth tilted his glass.

‘Might as well tell you now as tomorrow or the next day. We knew of your request – to come back to UK, that is – and you wouldn’t have had a hope in hell if we hadn’t needed a specialist, so to speak. You’re familiar with Enigma.’ It was a statement.

‘Yes. It’s still something of a hit-and-miss thing – breaking their codes; well, breaking the naval codes.’

‘ Exactly. That’s the whole crux of the matter. Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht codes are little problem, or so I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the naval codes – well, we can gather in their signals with no trouble at all. What is so annoying is that they chatter all over the Atlantic airwaves – especially the U-boats – and there’s damn-all we can do about it. Can’t break ’em.’

‘We can, sir, but most often it’s too late.’

‘Far too late for our convoys, yes. We’re losing one merchant ship in every four that crosses the Atlantic and it’s got to stop. It’s immoral!’

‘So I’m to be part of an operation that’s going to get hold of an Enigma machine the German Navy uses?’

‘Yes. But don’t get butterflies, Purvis.’

‘I’ve already got them and they’re wearing clogs!’

‘Then don’t worry – at least not too much – because we think we’ve managed to get hold of one. Don’t ask me how or where. One thing we don’t do is expect our radio operators over there to transmit long-winded messages. But the information this far is that one is ready for collecting. That’s why we need someone like you to check it over and bring it back. I take it you’d know what you were looking for?’

‘No. But I’m familiar with the ones their Army and Air Force use, so I reckon I’d spot anything different.’

‘Then that’s all we ask. Churchill would give a lot to break the U-boats’ codes. We can’t go on losing ships the way we are, nor the men who crew them.’

Keth agreed, then asked, ‘So you don’t know the exact location of the machine?’

‘Only approximately. Like I said, our wireless ops in the field don’t waste time on claptrap. They set up their sets, hook up their aerials and make their transmissions as fast as they can. The Krauts have got special detector units and they like getting hold of one of our men – or women. That’s why our lot don’t go round like Robin Hood and his Merry Men. They’re mostly loners. The fewer operators they know, the better. You’ll rely on your contact and trust him, or her. Your contact will tell you only as much as you need to know, so don’t ask questions, or names, because you won’t be told. I understand,’ the older man chuckled, ‘that you asked a lot of questions at Castle McLeish.’

‘I suppose I did, but I’m learning.’ Keth tilted his glass again. ‘Can I ask when I’ll be going?’

‘In about forty-eight hours.’

It was, Keth supposed, like going to have a tooth filled, only worse. He drained his glass then got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’m ready for bed now.’

‘Yes. Off with you. By the way, you don’t usually hit the bottle, do you?’

‘Hardly ever. But on this occasion, it has helped calm the butterflies. Good night, sir.’

‘’Night, Purvis.’ The elderly man watched him walk carefully to the door, relieved to find himself thinking that the young officer, inexperienced though he was, would fit the bill nicely. Strangely dark, he brooded. Black hair, black eyes. Gypsy blood, perhaps?

‘Purvis!’ he called.

‘Sir?’ Keth’s face reappeared round the door.

‘Any didicoy blood in you?’

‘No,’ Keth grinned. ‘My mother was a Pendennis. Cornish. They’re a dark people.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Didn’t take offence easily, either. And no matter what they’d said about him at Castle McLeish, he liked him. Purvis should do all right – as well as the next man, that was …

Grace Fielding was picking the last of the late-fruiting raspberries when a tall shadow fell down the rows. Without turning she said, ‘Hullo, Bas Sutton.’

‘Hi, Gracie. Marry me?’

She put down her basket and turned impatiently.

‘No, I won’t – thank you. And you always say that!’

‘Can you blame me when you always say no?’ He tilted her chin, then kissed her mouth.

‘And you can stop that in working hours!’ He always did it and in public, too! ‘Mr Catchpole’s going to catch you one day and you’ll be in trouble!’

‘No I won’t. I’ve just seen him – given him some tobacco. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t sitting on his apple box right now, puffing away without a care in the world.’