I Can't Begin to Tell You (33 page)

She caught a glimpse of her pale, drawn face in the train window. Could Tanne send word? Had Felix got out? She was pretty sure he would head for Sweden if he had. Surely Tanne would have gone with him?

Shockingly, she felt dislike – revulsion almost – for Rosenlund creep over her: its night silence; its petrified winter forests; the obligations that came with its occupancy; the grip of its past. Bror’s obsession with it.

They were approaching the outskirts of Køge and Kay collected herself.

The train was late. Behind a checkpoint manned by soldiers in German
feldgrau
uniforms was Bror, cigarette in hand. Pulling on her pale green gloves, she adjusted the frivolous straw hat. There was no rule to say that one shouldn’t deal with the enemy well dressed. Trusting to fate that none of them recognized her from the roadblock incident with Arne, she walked towards them and joined the queue.

The train blew its whistle – a desolate sound, she thought – and clunked slowly out of the station.

The wait was tedious. The soldiers were perfectly well aware of this but made no effort to hurry over the searches and
papers. A woman carrying a sick-looking child was ordered to empty her basket. Kay offered to hold the child while the mother was searched.

The man in front of Kay wore a long gaberdine mackintosh. He was given the once-over: inevitable, perhaps, because he looked Jewish.

‘No, no …’ A screech of terror rose from the man. ‘
No
.’

Two of the soldiers stepped forward, hooked their arms under his elbows and dragged him off, his knees buckling. ‘Help me … help me …’ he called.

No one moved.

The trio vanished out of sight.

She could hear the thoughts of the silent onlookers.
Bloody communist. Bloody Jew. Had it coming. Daren’t do anything. Hate them
… A spectrum of unvoiced responses.

When it was Kay’s turn, she handed over her papers. The younger German examined them and conferred with his officer.

‘Open your suitcase,’ ordered the officer in bad Danish.

Kay lifted it onto the table and watched the men go through it. One silk nightdress. A tin of cold cream. Underwear. Her black dress.

‘Unlock this box, please.’

Kay took off her gloves and complied, opening the box which contained her pearl necklace and earrings.

From his position by the barrier, Bror was keeping a close eye on proceedings.

‘Are you satisfied, gentlemen?’ she asked eventually, in German.

‘Not quite. Where have you been?’ She explained and was asked to repeat herself. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Take off your coat,’ ordered the officer.

They searched the coat’s pockets and patted the seams and hem.

Nothing.

‘Take off your hat.’

Her hair snagged on the hat pin and she was forced to work it free. The German snatched it away and ran a finger around the headband.

Nothing.

He handed it back.

‘You may go.’

She couldn’t bear to put the hat back on. Stiff with hatred, she picked up her gloves and the case and made her way towards Bror. He made no move to kiss her, but handed her into the car and they drove mostly in silence to Rosenlund, where he parked by the front door.

Reluctant to make the first move, reluctant to break the deep ice, they both lingered by the car in the sunshine.

Bror gave in first. ‘Wulf has been on the phone. He told me they pieced together some evidence. A girl answering to Tanne’s description was seen catching a train to København.’

‘A girl, you say. How many girls are there in Denmark? When did they see her?’

‘The morning after Tanne vanished.’

‘Why have they taken so long to tell us this amazing fact?’

‘Because they’re watching us, to see if she comes back. Kay, I want to know if you went up to København to see her?’

She calculated the odds. Would Wulf have relayed the information on? Or would an old loyalty keep him silent?

‘No, I didn’t.’ She turned and walked towards the garden.

Tanne had probably got away. Yes? No? Yes …

Bror caught up with Kay. As they so often did, they walked through the garden, past the irises and blowsy-headed peonies, past the beds which later would bloom with white cosmos and brightly coloured zinnias, drawn as always down to the lake.

The water was calm and transparent and Sophia-Maria’s island appeared to float on it.

For once, the light was dazzling.

Bror
bent down to inspect the nesting area in the rushes. How often had she seen him do that? As he stood upright he asked, ‘Have I lost you?’

Her eyes were watering because of the sun. ‘I’m not sure.’

Bror unleashed some uncharacteristic bitterness. ‘It’s your doing that Tanne has gone.’

‘No,’ she contradicted. ‘War did it.’

‘Maybe,’ he acknowledged.

When she first arrived in Denmark, Kay had no idea what was meant by a Danish winter, no idea how the landscape changed from one of greens, yellows and cobalt blue, to the uniform, freezing melancholy of Lutheran grey and dun. Some years, as the outer darkness closed in, she had caught herself falling into a matching inner darkness. Struggling to survive those episodes, she had learned that she must neither panic nor give in.

Kay picked up a stone, a grey one streaked with white. Unlike a stone from the seaside, it had a sharp edge. She heard Anton’s voice in her ear: ‘Keep on good terms.’

‘Darling Bror, we must not be at odds.’ Unfolding her hand, the stone balancing on the palm, she offered it to him. ‘Can we build a bridge?’

Looking across the sparkling water, she fantasized that, one day, he and she might live together in harmony again.

‘We can stay here, out of sight, and work to keep the farms as productive as possible. That can be our contribution.’

He thought about it.

Accepting the stone, he hefted it from one hand to the other before sending it skimming away over the surface of the water.

Before dinner, she went up to her office and encoded her message.

Do you wish for the peace of my kiss?

With extreme effort. Teeth clamped together. Nervous.

Remember
the five words.

Indicators.

Transposition.

Double transposition.

She longed for Felix’s help. For Nils’s wizardry with mathematical patterns. For Johan, her Morse teacher, and his calm instructions. For a degree of competence.

Message number … what number had Felix got to? She grabbed one at random. Fifty. Felix couldn’t have sent more than fifty?

SUGGEST NEW DZ 1004993
stop
PLEASE CHECK IT
stop
NO MORE MESSAGES FOR FORESEEABLE FUTURE
stop
ON THE RUN
stop
MAYONNAISE

That done, she went down to dinner and talked to Bror about crop yields and the mystery illness which was plaguing a couple of the cow herds. Afterwards, she pleaded fatigue and said she was going to have an early night.

Bror was looking at her with a peculiar intensity. There was a question mark and a supplication.

Was he asking to join her in her bed?

Not now. Not now. Having calculated that the surveillance on the estate would not be so efficient at night, she had to use the night hours.

Deliberately, she turned away. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Bror,’ she said, cool and distant. A second elapsed before she added, ‘I sleep so much better on my own. Don’t you?’

It was after midnight when she crept down the steps outside her office and, the torch beam muffled with a handkerchief, made her way as fast as possible to Ove’s cottage.

In the outside privy, she placed the wireless set on the wooden lavatory seat and wedged the torch into the case lid so its light fell over the dials.

What next? Ready the set. Aerial out. Dial tuned. A cool
mind. A steady hand. The normal sked time had long passed and she selected the night-time emergency crystal.

ZYA QTC1 …

From ZYA, I have one message for you
.

Nothing.

Again, the arduous keying in: ZYA QTC1.

Somewhere, someone was patrolling the emergency frequencies.

Hurry up … please.

QVR.

Ah … she had been picked up.

A lump heaved into Kay’s throat.
Home
. Home was where they knew what they thought, who they were fighting, and to whom they should listen. Not like here. Not like fractured Denmark.

She did her best. Her finger felt useless on the transmitter key. Clumsy. Slow. Sweat ran down from her armpits. My God, she was bad at it. And surely everyone within a radius of a hundred metres would catch the fizzing ether in her headphones, the tap of the key.

Somewhere out there, General Gottfried’s crack unit had almost certainly latched onto the stumbling transmission. Had they fixed on it yet?

When it was over, her hands dropped into her lap.

She had gone over the drill with Felix. He had taught her that, if the emergency frequency was used, a pianist had to wait seventy minutes for a reply.

He explained what happened at the listening station when the emergency frequency was used. With someone standing by to type into the teleprinter, a cipher clerk at Home Station would decode at top speed. At headquarters top-priority systems would swing into action. A reply from the bosses would be formulated, encoded and transmitted.

The Morse began to pulse in her ears.

QTC1.
I have one message for you
.

Headphones on, she strained to hear the incoming message.

It was done. Finally. QSL.
I acknowledge receipt
. AR.
Over and out
.

She ticked the boxes.

Pack up methodically. Stow aerial and flex. Disconnect headphones. Remove crystal.

Where should she hide the wireless set? In the pigeon loft? Or leave it here?

Here.

She tore the outgoing message into shreds and tamped it down into the earth under the trees, folded the incoming message into a spill and tucked it into the cotton scarf round her neck.

Back in her bedroom, Kay undressed, sat down at her dressing table and began to decode the incoming message. It was laborious, mind-numbing work and she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to do it.

But she did.

ABANDON AREA
stop
RETURN LONDON FOR DEBRIEF
stop
USE SWEDISH BUS
stop
CONTACT RICHARD
stop

The message was too late to get to Felix but it helped Kay. London was looking out for him and, if Tanne was with Felix, they would take care of her.

Her gloves lay on the dressing table. With a practised movement, she wedged the decoded message into the first finger of the right-hand one and dropped it back down on the dressing table.

Bed … sleep … at last.

She was drifting … drowsing. The door opened and in came Bror. Casting aside his dressing gown, he lay down beside her.

She lay stiff with surprise. ‘Bror … why are you here?’ The relief that he was there. The terror that he was.

‘Kay
… darling Kay … this can’t go on.’

He was so familiar, and yet so alien. They had travelled so far apart – and she thought her heart would break.

After a while, he put out an arm. ‘This is madness. How have we let this happen?’ He stroked her cheek. ‘I can’t lose you and Tanne.’

A bridge was being built. Fragile and shaky, it might not stand too many shocks.

It was so dark, Kay could not see him, only feel him – the length of his limbs, the flexed arm and the butterfly trails made by his fingers on her skin.

Exhaustion seeped through her. She loved Bror. Because she loved him, she could give him one thing. She could grant him some peace of mind. ‘Bror, I suspect Tanne’s in Sweden.’

‘Suspect or know?’

‘I can’t tell you for sure.’

The stroking on her cheek ceased. ‘I wondered. Sweden was the obvious place.’

They were whispering into the dark, moving closer.

‘I know people are getting themselves over there,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll know it’s the best thing? Tanne will be safe, particularly if her politics are changing. Once the war is over, she can come back and she will have a clean sheet. She won’t be –’ Kay laid her hand flat against Bror’s chest ‘– contaminated, I suppose.’

‘And I am?’

‘Let’s not think about that now.’

He fell asleep with his head on her shoulder. She listened to his steady breathing and cradled her arm carefully round his body, holding him as if she would never let him go.

My God, that was close. That was very close
.

In early May, Mary received an unexpected communication.

Years ago, Mary’s cousin Vera had married ‘up’ and left London – leaving behind Mary and an assortment of other cousins in their cramped Brixton terraces – and vanished into the roomier domain of a detached house and garden near Henford. Vera had always been the brainier one, and more determined. Since then, the family had not seen much of Vera, certainly not since the outbreak of war. Her letter inviting Mary to tea therefore came as a surprise, particularly as Mary had not been aware that Vera knew she was in the area.

The bus drove past rows of houses and bungalows with their lines of washing and scrubbed front steps, past the post boxes, telephone kiosks and scrubby vegetable patches. Once outside Henford, buildings yielded to green stubbled fields, and to ditches and hedgerows where Queen Anne’s lace foamed in profusion.

Everything on this late spring day was bright and fresh – which Mary appreciated. Truly she did, and it lifted her spirits.

Yet she couldn’t forget that the world was in a mess. Could the politicians do anything about it? Reposing in Mary’s bag was a copy of Mr Beveridge’s report on social policy. Apparently, in a new post-war Britain, poverty, disease and squalor would be given their marching orders, backed up by a new contributory scheme which would offer a safety net from the cradle to the grave.

Mary liked the sound of Mr Beveridge’s thinking. If implemented, it would mean she wouldn’t need to be quite so anxious about her future. She also approved the idea that she would be
contributing to that future. And other’s.
Mary Voss
… she murmured.
You matter
.

The walk from the bus stop to Vera’s house turned out be half a mile or so and it was warm. Mary’s one good blouse was made of Viyella and, within minutes, she was perspiring. Her not-always-successful solution to this universal problem was to sew pads into her clothing and to use plenty of talcum powder – if she could get hold of it – or bicarbonate. Praying that her perspiration wasn’t too obvious, she walked up the path to Vera’s front door.

‘Mary … you’re here already.’

Vera, a harassed-looking redhead with a redhead’s translucent skin, had emerged from a room at the back of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘The bus must have been quicker than usual.’ She drew Mary into the parlour. ‘Let me look at you. It must be a couple of years.’

They were interrupted by the telephone ringing in the hall. An odd, worried look whisked over Vera’s face. Pushing Mary into a chair, she went to answer it. Mary heard her say: ‘Darling,
six
at dawn …’

Mary was amused to note that Vera’s accent fluted in a way it never had when she was a child in Brixton.

‘…
before
dawn? I’d better make the beds but I haven’t had a chance to wash the sheets from the last lot yet. Too bad. They’ll be too tired to notice. Will the new butcher give me extra bacon? I’m sure he suspects. Is he the silent type, do you think? I’ll lay the table now. I’ve got one for this evening. The one last night broke my heart. He had a wild and haunted look … I was worried sick that his nerves were shot. They will look out for him, won’t they? I must go. Mary’s arrived for tea …’ There was a pause before Vera said: ‘Mary Voss, my cousin. You remember Mary?’

Probably not, thought Mary a touch acidly.

Vera’s feet beat a rapid path down the passage. Mary went
after her and discovered Vera in the kitchen filling the kettle. At Mary’s entrance, she wheeled round. ‘You startled me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, no. Not at all. I’m just getting tea … I’m sorry to say that I’m a bit behind today, Mary. John and I have had a lot on. The hens, I’m so late with them … Trouble with animals is that they don’t understand if they’re not fed.’

‘If you like, I’ll do the hens.’

‘Would you? That is
awfully
nice of you. I’m afraid I’ve got some unexpected visitors coming later.’

‘Who?’

Vera shrugged. ‘Just people. They’re travelling here and there, you know, and John and I put them up.’ She made a vague gesture. ‘The war effort.’

‘How mysterious.’

Vera whisked off a cloth covering a plate of sandwiches. They were curling just a touch at the edges. ‘It’s nice to see you, Mary.’

‘How did you know where to find me?’

There was a pause. ‘I think I saw you in Henford before Christmas. You were in uniform and I reckoned you were working at the big house.’ Vera appeared cagey about the details. She thrust a bowl at Mary. ‘
Would
you?’

Mary found herself by the chicken coop scattering the grain. A hen orchestra tuned up as a cluster of hens scuttled towards the food. A tiny bantam, no more than a handful of feathers, clucked by Mary’s feet and she bent over and touched it with a fingertip. The little thing was so warm and soft and, in contrast to the life Mary was now leading, real.

She straightened up. Vera
had
done well. Even if the hedges needed a trim, moles had been at work all over the lawn and the hens had churned up a great patch under the oak tree, there was a spacious and generous feel to the garden.

From one of the straggle of outhouses, pigeons were sounding. It was a good noise, especially on a lovely day like this one.
Curiosity piqued, Mary strolled over to the shed and poked her nose inside.

To her astonishment, it contained a row of large cages, several of which were inhabited by birds. On a bench in the middle were stacked leather carrier boxes, water bottles and blocks of hard feed.

Since when had Vera and John kept racing pigeons? Mary drifted over to the cages. At her approach, a couple of the birds fluttered their wings and called out.

A big buff-coloured male caught her eye. He had bright eyes and a strong-looking neck but there was a sore on his leg as if something had rubbed up against it. A piece of paper had fallen onto the floor of his cage. Mary squinted at it and experienced a small electric shock.

It was impossible not to recognize what it was.

Mary had sent and received enough signals to know that the neat columns of apparently random letters were an incoming message from the field, or perhaps an outgoing one. She had no idea which. What she did know was that this was a bad security breach … and Vera was obviously involved in secret work using pigeons to send messages.

Up to her neck in it, Vera was.

‘Mary! What are you doing?’

Vera had come up behind her.

Mary did not look round. ‘I had no idea you kept pigeons.’

‘Well, we do.’ Vera was very short.

Mary indicated the paper in the cage. ‘Vera … Should you?’

Quick as a flash, Vera interposed herself between Mary and the cage. ‘You’ve seen
nothing
, Mary. Do you understand?’

‘I do.’ She thought of the long hours of listening. ‘Believe me.’

Vera swallowed. ‘It was a mistake. Do you understand?’

Secrets. They were everywhere. The war was being fought with secrets. Big ones, negligible ones … ones that people died to keep. Those in the know had to keep silence and were
forbidden to link up any tiny nuggets of evidence to assemble a bigger picture, however tempting.

The equation balanced. Mary knew she must not let on that she knew the pigeons in Vera’s back garden were probably flying messages to and from occupied Europe. In return, Vera must be ignorant of where Mary worked.

Vera succeeded in pushing Mary out of the shed and shut the door. She leaned back against it. ‘Mary, I have to trust you. Can I?’

‘Yes.’

Both of them sounded very self-conscious – which made Mary want to giggle. But it wasn’t a joke. ‘That message … you must hide it.’

Vera blushed bright red. ‘An oversight.’

Oh Lord
, Mary thought.
I’m relishing this
. During their childhood, Vera had always been the cousin held up as an example by the adults, and the rest of them had suffered from it.

Vera scuffed a patch of earth with the toe of her shoe. ‘It hasn’t ever happened … it won’t happen again.’ Vera’s embarrassment rose in waves and Mary couldn’t help but enjoy it. Just a little.

Vera had a go at turning the conversation to normal. ‘Did you feed the hens?’

‘Yes, I did.’

The little bantam chose that moment to cluck across their path. ‘It’s so sweet,’ said Mary.

With obvious relief, Vera said: ‘That’s Meeny. Miny and Mo are over there. I’m afraid Eeny died.’ She touched Mary on the shoulder. ‘Kettle’s boiled and you’ve earned your tea.’

Her moment of triumph shelved, Mary sought to break the tension. ‘It’s quite a haven here.’

Vera gave a strained laugh. ‘Rabbits, squirrels, some frogs …’

‘We have bluebottles in the canteen which we can’t get rid of and one of the girls swears she’s also spotted fleas.’

‘The real enemy.’

The
cousins’ eyes met in a glancing exchange. How strange war was, how very strange. Its reach was like leaking water which appeared in surprising places and a long way from its original source.

After a lull, traffic was hotting up at Station 53d and Signalmaster Noble was in a bad temper. Having shouted at Nancy for inattention, he left the room to deliver the latest messages to the decoders.

‘
Men!
’ Nancy dropped her head into her hands and tugged at her hair.

‘Men have two feet, two hands and, sometimes, two women, but never more than one shilling or one idea at the same time,’ Mary sat down and checked over her pencils.

Nancy raised her head. ‘Not
bad
,’ she said admiringly. She raised her voice. ‘Here, Beryl! Listen to what Mary’s just come up with.’

Mary wasn’t displeased. Quite the opposite. The girls’ reaction, and her satisfaction in it, was very pleasing.

‘You’re doing a lot of extra shifts.’ Nancy’s head was back in her hands.

‘So are you,’ Mary replied.

‘I’m doing it for the extra pay.’

Pleasing though it was to bank, the extra pay wasn’t the main reason Mary took on the additional shifts. Disciplined and seasoned as she was, the work flowed through her fingers. By her own efforts, she had turned herself into one of the most reliable of operators. She loved that and the reward in doing something well. Yet it was the bond with ‘her’ agents which was always at the back of Mary’s mind. That bond – whose demands and imperatives pushed her into flights of feeling that could take her breath away.

Now the days were getting longer, Mary reckoned that the agents would be freer to move around and to plan operations. Not that she had any concrete evidence. Maybe – and she
hoped they would – they would take pleasure and gain some respite and relief from the sight of wheeling swallows, meadows sweet with hay, sheep at pasture, from the arrival of fresh vegetables and fruit, the warmth of city streets …

‘Voss!’ Signalmaster Noble had returned. ‘You have ten minutes before your next sked. Get me a cup of tea. Smartish.’

He was out of order. Mary knew it and he knew it. The difference: he could get away with it.

Ten minutes meant ten minutes. Taking the quickest route to the canteen, Mary had to pass a small office at the top of the stairs. The door to this office was ajar. A raised male voice sounded from inside.

‘The situation is a mess.’ The speaker was clearly exasperated. ‘According to Mayonnaise, Copenhagen is stuffed with informers. He also reported that one of the agents on Jutland had to be eliminated and the last drop was a disaster. Everyone’s furious. The RAF bods are threatening to withhold planes. Only Vinegar is up and running.’

‘And uncompromised?’

‘As far as we know …’

Vinegar. Mayonnaise
. On hearing these names, Mary’s heart quickened.

Her footsteps on the wooden floor gave away her presence and the door slammed shut.

‘Spies Are Everywhere’ ran the legend on the latest warning poster in the canteen. Well, she wasn’t a spy but, in a short space of time, she had stumbled across two pieces of interesting information.

Copenhagen.

Was it possible that Vinegar and Mayonnaise were operating in Denmark?

At the next opportunity, she visited the local library and scoured the papers for any hints of relevant activity, puzzling over the references to Sweden and ‘flows of information’. At first, she took this to mean radio traffic. Having consulted a
map, and read one or two articles which dropped broad hints, she revised her opinion. ‘Flows of information’ looked more likely to be the result of fishing boats slipping away from the Danish coast into the Øresund, or stealing around the minefields in the Kattegat, and making their way to Sweden.

How did intelligence work? Mary was groping towards understanding how important it was to possess the ability to sift random facts and to make sense of them. The ratchets in her mind clicked onwards. For example: Vera was keeping messenger pigeons, and was almost certainly involved in war work. She was also entertaining ‘visitors’ who might, or might not, be engaged in secret work, too. Was it possible it had been Vera who had recommended Mary for Morse training? Vera knew about her father …

During the second week in May, Mary realized she had lost Mayonnaise. Or rather, he had gone silent.

‘Sir,’ she reported to Signalmaster Noble. ‘Mayonnaise has missed two skeds.’

He frowned. ‘Right, then. We’ll get that logged.’

Mary’s frustration was intense at not being able to ask why Mayonnaise had gone silent – at not being able to make any kind of comment.

She was allocated another agent. Different call sign, different fist. ‘Just do your best, Voss, and don’t say anything.’ Signalmaster Noble smiled sardonically. ‘It’s not your place.’

Mayonnaise’s silence affected Mary badly. She was terrified he was captured or on the run without a wireless set.

Where did you hide in a country that, she knew from her research, was uniformly flat? Surely there had to be woods, even a forest? And there must be places to hide along the coastline?

The pain she felt at losing an agent took even her by surprise. It got to her in many ways. Music … she found herself unable to listen to Beethoven’s Fifth on the radio, for example, or Schubert’s Quintet, or even Vera Lynn, without choking up.
Appetite … she had to force herself to eat. Sleep … that was a subject best left, so bad were her sleep patterns.