The FitzOsbornes at War (12 page)

‘It’s a bit colder than the Daimler,’ Henry admitted. ‘But I threw in one of Aunt Charlotte’s old furs for you to wrap around yourselves – there it is, on top of those sacks. Just pretend you’re in a sleigh, Sophie, like in that Russian novel.’

‘You mean
Anna Karenina
?’ I said as we jolted off, although the situation bore a much closer resemblance to
Cold Comfort Farm
. I was sharing my half of the cart with two empty milk canisters, some spare parts for the water pump and a crate of unhappy chickens. But after three months of grey old London, it was a refreshing change to be jogging through this bright landscape, the trees and hedges frosted with new snow, the icy road glittering like diamonds; to be taking great gulps of bracing country air scented with horses and hay, rather than breathing in coal dust and petrol fumes. Meanwhile, Henry shouted the news at us over her shoulder. Toby had a week’s leave and was driving down that day; Simon only had forty-eight hours off, so was going to visit his mother instead; Carlos, who’s taken to following Barnes around, insisted on ‘helping’ her decorate the Christmas tree, then got tangled in tinsel and nearly brought the whole thing down on her head; the cook was threatening to resign; and Estella the pig was pregnant.

‘I’ve told her she can’t have the piglets till Easter, when I’m home from school,’ yelled Henry. ‘But she’s awfully stubborn, it’d be just like her to have them the week before. Do you think Aunt Charlotte would let me miss a few weeks of term, just in case? Because I really think – Look! Isn’t that Toby’s car by the front door?’

She brought Lightning to a halt, then hurled herself off the cart and into the arms of her favourite person in the world.

‘You must have driven a hundred miles an hour!’ she exclaimed. ‘Or did you leave at four o’clock in the – Toby! You’ve got your
wings
!’

‘Have I?’ he said, glancing down at himself. ‘Oh, I wondered why they’d sewn that badge above my pocket . . .’

‘Congratulations, Toby!’ I said, hugging him, then handing him over to Veronica.

‘Well done, Pilot Officer FitzOsborne.’ She held him at arm’s length so she could admire his tunic. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Wednesday,’ he said, breaking into an enormous grin. ‘You wouldn’t believe how nervous I was before the test, but everything went like a dream. At one point, the instructor cut the throttle, to see how I’d manage a forced landing, and I’d practised so much, I didn’t even have to
think
about what to do. It just happened.’ He shook his head, looking slightly stunned but very, very pleased with himself. And I understood then how hard he had worked at this, and what a lovely, new experience it must be for him to have
earned
a prize, rather than merely having it handed to him by right of birth.

‘I can’t wait to tell everyone at school!’ Henry was saying. ‘There’s this awful girl in my dorm called Loretta, who’s always showing off about her brother being a captain in the boring old army, and now I can say
my
brother flies fighters in the RAF!’

‘Steady on,’ said Toby, leaning around her to lift our suitcases off the cart. ‘I still have a bit more training to go before I get posted to a squadron.’

‘Good,’ I almost said, before I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to spoil a moment of this for him. And I consoled myself with the fact that there wasn’t any fighting going on at all, not at the moment – none involving us or the Germans, at any rate. The Bore War, people have started calling it, the Phoney War. Perhaps the whole thing would be over before Toby – or Simon, or Anthony, or anyone else – had to fly into battle.

But then, after I’d unpacked and run back downstairs, I discovered Toby in the hall, pulling on a heavy coat.

‘Where are you off to?’ I asked, staring at him. ‘And what on Earth are you
wearing
?’

‘Aren’t I the very picture of a dashing young squire?’ he said, swivelling to display his tweeds. ‘I’m going over to Lord Bosworth’s to shoot pheasants.’

‘But you hate shooting!’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I need to learn how to do it.’ He took down a cap from the hatstand. ‘I realised that this week, Soph. It’s all very well being an expert at aerobatics, but the point of going up there is to shoot other planes down, and I’m not sure the instructors are teaching us anything useful about that. We’ve practised aiming at a stationary target, but I can’t believe the Luftwaffe pilots are simply going to sit there like lumps, waiting for us to take potshots at them. I think it has to be more like shooting birds, where one needs to aim ahead so they fly into the bullets . . . Anyway, that’s what I’m going to learn about now. Lord B was awfully nice when I telephoned, said he’d take me out himself and give me some hints.’ Then Toby caught sight of my expression. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Soph. I promise not to shoot anyone in the foot.’

It wasn’t
that
I was worried about. But I plastered on a smile.

‘Well, bring back lots to eat!’ I said brightly. ‘Henry told us the cook’s been complaining that the Christmas goose isn’t big enough, and Aunt Charlotte really wants it to be a dinner to remember this year. I think the WVS rulebook says it’s unpatriotic to skimp on Christmas cheer.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Toby said, as he tugged open the front door. ‘Ugh, it’s
glacial
out here! The sacrifices a man must make . . . Oh, and don’t tell Henry about this, will you? Or Rupert. They’ll have the RSPCA onto me, for cruelty to pheasants.’

Then I watched my gentle, sweet-tempered brother run down the steps, off to teach himself how to be an efficient killer.

So, even though I’m not entirely sure I’d call myself a Christian, I went to church this morning to pray for peace. Kneeling there, I realised I didn’t want
merely
peace, but also justice for the people of Czechoslovakia and Poland; Montmaray to be returned to us; the Germans to understand how evil Hitler is; and Stalin and Mussolini to stop invading places like Finland and Albania. Then (because we
do
seem stuck with war, for the time being), I thought I might as well pray that all the boys I knew in the services would be kept safe; that Rebecca would get used to Simon being in the RAF and become less miserable; and that I would stop feeling so awkward at Embassy cocktail parties and actually manage to uncover the spy who was causing such problems for the Colonel.

Poor God, dealing with humans and their impossible, endless demands! I know He’s meant to be omnipotent, but even so, He must get a bit fed up sometimes, especially on Sunday mornings.

20th January, 1940

T
HE
C
OLONEL INVITED HIMSELF OVER
to our flat for tea this afternoon. I’d planned to bake some biscuits, but all the recipes in
Mrs Beeton
make a mockery of our minuscule food ration (‘First, take a pound of butter and half a pound of sugar . . .’). Fortunately, the Colonel arrived with a large tin of shortbread, a jar of honey and another of raspberry jam, all courtesy of Lady Astley.

‘I know rationing is essential for the war effort and we ought to be embracing it and so forth,’ he said, ‘but thank Heavens I have relatives with their own farm and a well-stocked larder. Are you very busy at work now, Sophie?’

‘Frantic,’ I said. ‘But I feel like the Red Queen, running as fast as I can simply to stay in the same spot. And none of us
dares
tell anyone outside the office that we work for the Ministry of Food – otherwise, we get bombarded with complaints about how the shopkeeper cut too many coupons from their ration book, or that there weren’t any eggs left after they’d queued for an hour. As though
we
can do anything about that! We’re all dreading the start of meat rationing.’

‘Morale’s that bad, is it?’ said the Colonel. ‘Well, if it helps, I doubt Morrison will be Minister of Food much longer. And what’s happening in your department, Veronica?’

‘Nothing much, except a lot of rumours flying round about the Duke of Windsor,’ she said. ‘What’s he doing visiting England, anyway? The Palace must be furious – didn’t they create some harmless job with the Allied War Committee in Paris to keep him out of the way? Now everyone’s saying he wants to open peace negotiations with the Germans.’

‘He’s bored, poor chap, and terribly homesick,’ said the Colonel. ‘And he has a great need to feel important.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have abdicated,’ said Veronica, ‘especially not in order to marry that dreadful American woman. Is it true, what they say about her links to the Nazis?’

The Colonel always knows the inside story, so he’s marvellous to have around when one wants a good long gossip – although both he and Veronica insist it’s not gossip, but serious political discussion. Another of today’s conversational subjects was Unity Mitford, who’s arrived here from Munich on a stretcher – too ‘ill’ to be arrested or interrogated, even though she’s an unequivocal Nazi.

‘One of the girls at work is convinced that Unity is pregnant,’ I said. ‘And that it’s Hitler’s baby.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the Colonel. ‘She shot herself in the head because she couldn’t bear to see England at war with Germany. I read the doctor’s report myself – it’s a wonder she survived. It’s her parents I feel sorry for.’

‘I know, how awful for them,’ I said. ‘I even feel a bit sorry for
her
. Imagine the desperate state of her mind, to do such a thing.’

‘Oh, honestly, Sophie!’ said Veronica impatiently. ‘She knew full well what she was doing, just as she did when she was running about declaring all the Jews ought to be thrown out of England. What infuriates
me
is that she and her Fascist sister and that revolting Mosley person remain at perfect liberty, while anti-Nazis like Daniel’s cousins are locked up on the Isle of Man!’

Daniel has just discovered that both his cousins were assessed by a tribunal last month and judged to be a security risk, because one of them had been a member of the Communist Party years ago, at university. They weren’t allowed the services of a lawyer or an interpreter at the hearing, and must have found it very difficult to protest their innocence in English, their third or fourth language. If only Daniel could have been there! And it’s such a
waste
, when they speak German and one of them’s a scientist – surely they could be helping with the war effort, if they were free.

‘I know it’s frustrating,’ said the Colonel. ‘But there’s a committee being set up to review cases like theirs. They
will
be released – it’s simply a matter of time. And I assure you, Unity Mitford is bedridden and in no state to answer any questions, let alone spy for the Nazis. I wouldn’t worry too much about the Mosleys, either – someone’s keeping a careful eye on them. And speaking of which . . .’

Veronica jumped up and began to clatter teacups onto the tray. ‘I think I’ll do the washing up now,’ she announced. ‘In the kitchen, by myself. I shall do it VERY LOUDLY.’ She marched off with a great rattle of china, and the Colonel chuckled.

‘I fear for your tea set,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I ought to arrange some remuneration for you, to cover breakages incurred as a consequence of security arrangements. So, what news?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t know if this is worth much, but a girl at the American Embassy mentioned another clerk who’s hoping to be posted to Berlin soon. I hardly know him, though.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mr Kent. He has one of those first names that sound like a last name, Taylor or Tyler, something like that. Sorry, but you know how difficult it is to hear anything at cocktail parties – especially when everyone’s talking American.’

‘Have you ever spoken with him?’

‘Only briefly. He’s about thirty, I suppose, well-dressed, very loud. I’ve heard him complaining about the British trying to drag America into “this hopeless war” – but really, half the Embassy staff feel that way. He
could
just have been trying to ingratiate himself with Mr Kennedy. He’s quite new, only arrived here a couple of months ago.’