The FitzOsbornes at War (29 page)

‘But are you sure it was Anthony she heard?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps she
did
make a mistake.’

Simon shook his head. ‘I checked. As far as I could – and I didn’t get very far before I hit a brick wall. It was his squadron, his section, his number. He got out of that plane, I’m certain. The plane might have been on fire when it hit the ground, but he wasn’t in it. They’re covering up something, you see.’

‘Well, no,’ I said slowly. ‘I
don’t
see.’ (I was actually thinking that the strain of his job, the long hours, the lack of sleep, had turned Simon a bit paranoid.) ‘Why would the air force cover anything up? If there’d been some sort of . . . mistake or accident or something, surely they’d want to investigate it at once, to stop it happening again? They wouldn’t try to pretend it hadn’t
happened
.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Remember the Battle of Barking Creek?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘No, of course you don’t, because they covered that one up, too. Three days after war was declared, someone spotted what looked like an enemy plane crossing the Channel. So Fighter Command sent up a squadron to investigate. But there was something wrong with the system, and
that
squadron was identified as hostile aircraft as well. So some more fighters got ordered up and they opened fire – against regulations – and two RAF pilots were shot down. One of them died. You think they told his family the truth? There weren’t any enemy planes at all in the sky that day. No one knows exactly what happened, even now, but I
do
know that one officer lied about giving the order to fire, and now he’s got a nice shiny medal and he’s one of those dashing Fighter Boys constantly being photographed and quoted in the newspapers. And it wasn’t just that the
public
weren’t told the truth about that incident – even within the air force, it wasn’t admitted that anything had gone wrong until seven months later. Seven months! And that’s not the only time they’ve hushed up things, either.’

I sat there, struggling to comprehend all that. I was used to things going wrong in my department at the Ministry of Food – I’d even witnessed a couple of Mr Bowker’s futile attempts to conceal his own incompetence – but I’d truly believed that the armed forces were different. They
had
to be. They were the ones fighting this war.

‘All right,’ I said, at last. ‘I can accept that the air force might make up something to . . . to placate Anthony’s family, if things had gone wrong. But there
wasn’t
anything comforting about that letter, Simon! It said his body got burnt up. That’s a horrible thing for his family to have to read. They couldn’t even have a proper funeral. Why would the letter say that, if it weren’t true?’

Simon looked troubled. ‘I don’t think the air force wanted anyone to see his body. I think he bailed out, and they recovered his body, and they got rid of it. Or they burnt it and claimed they found it in the plane wreckage.’

‘But why? What do you think happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I think it must have been something to do with the parachute. I know sometimes they don’t open –’ He caught my wince. ‘Sorry, it’s gruesome, but it
does
happen, everyone acknowledges that. This has to be much, much worse. Perhaps . . . a design fault in some new type of parachute, and they’re protecting the manufacturer? Or perhaps the contract cost them a lot of money and was signed by an officer with connections in high places, someone worth shielding at any cost –’

‘And you’ve been snooping around, asking
questions
about this?’ I cried, suddenly furious at him. ‘What if they find out?’

‘Shh!’ he said, glancing about.

‘Why are you even
telling
me this?’ I hissed.

‘I told you, I need your help!’ he said. ‘I hoped that maybe . . . that you could ask the Colonel to investigate.’

‘But –’

‘Sophie, this is important! Pilots’
lives
depend on those parachutes working! It can’t wait seven months! What if it’s Toby next time?’

I was silenced.

‘I thought the Colonel would be the one person who could get to the bottom of it,’ Simon went on, more calmly. ‘But then I remembered he’s Julia’s uncle, and I thought that if he discovered anything unpleasant, it could be awkward for him. You know Julia better than I do, though. Do you think she’d
want
to know the truth? Or would it be kinder to . . . let sleeping dogs lie?’

I frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She’s having a very hard time right now. I know what you think of her, Simon, but she really did love Anthony.’

I recalled that conversation I’d had with her, months ago, about her resolution to become the perfect wife. Perhaps she’d thought that if she devoted herself to making Anthony happy, she’d be rewarded. Anthony would
surely
be kept safe, when she was making such an effort to be good. If she’d believed that, even subconsciously, then how angry and bitter and betrayed she must have felt afterwards. No wonder she’d ended up . . . doing what she’d done.

‘I can’t say how Julia might react,’ I told Simon, ‘but I don’t think it would help her at all to know that Anthony died because of the incompetence of someone on his own side. Especially if she found out that he’d . . . suffered.’

‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I see what you mean. Well then, she mustn’t find out.’

‘The Colonel’s very good at keeping secrets,’ I said. ‘But Simon, I haven’t seen him for ages. I’m not even sure where he is.’

I’d had only brief, irregular visits from the Colonel since the Tyler Kent affair had been uncovered, although I’d continued my cloak-and-dagger activities for a while. For example, I’d get a telephone call asking if I could go for a walk in Kensington Gardens at a specific time, and have a short rest upon a certain bench, whereupon a lady in a green hat would offer me her magazine when she’d finished with it – and could I then make some pretence of reading a few pages, place the magazine carefully in my bag and stroll home? Then the Colonel would pop around a few evenings later to collect it. I never asked whether I was delivering vital photographs, or encoded letters, or microfilmed maps – I didn’t
want
to know. But the Blitz had put an end to my secret assignments, anyway. People didn’t take casual strolls or loiter in parks in the middle of an air raid, and there was no guarantee that any particular bench or statue or fountain selected as a rendezvous point would still be standing a few hours later. It must have been at least three months since I’d seen the Colonel.

‘I
might
be able to track him down,’ I said, wondering if our telephone code still functioned, and suspecting it didn’t. He was connected to the Foreign Office, though, so perhaps Veronica’s boss might have some idea of how to find him . . .

‘Please try,’ said Simon. ‘Just be careful.’

‘
You’re
telling
me
to be careful?’ I said incredulously.

He sent me a rueful, pleading look that melted all my reservations. Although I was careful to conceal this from him, with an enormous scowl. After all, I don’t want him taking me for granted.

19th January, 1941

D
APHNE TELEPHONED YESTERDAY TO ASK
me to go out dancing with her and Julia.

‘Come on, Sophie,’ she urged. ‘Julia says she’ll go if
you
do, and she’s only saying that because she thinks you’ll say no. But she absolutely
needs
to get out, relax, enjoy herself a little. She hardly leaves the house now except to go to work, and that job’s not exactly
fun
, is it?’

‘Oh, Daphne,’ I said, ‘she just needs some time to herself.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Daphne. ‘I’ve known her forever, and believe me, Sophie, she needs people around her, to help her get over things. Well, not get
over
it, exactly, but all this hiding away and moping, it simply isn’t
her
. Now, be a darling and say you’ll come out with us tonight.’

‘I’m too tired,’ I said, which was quite true. ‘I was on fire-watching duty twice this week.’

‘You’ll be home by midnight, I promise! Or one o’clock at the very, very latest! We’ll have a nice early dinner at the Savoy and then go somewhere to dance for an hour or so, and you can toddle off after that. I’ve asked some friends to meet us – lovely Polish pilots, you’ll adore them. Oh, and bring Veronica.’

‘She’s not even here,’ I said. ‘She’s terribly busy at work, I’ve scarcely seen her all week – oh, wait, here she comes now.’

Veronica trudged into our sitting room, dumped her bag on the floor and sagged onto the sofa.

‘Do you want to go out tonight?’ I asked her.

She flung an arm across her eyes.

‘She doesn’t want to,’ I told Daphne.

‘Oh, what a pity! But never mind – we’ll collect
you
at eight, darling, all right?’ Then she rang off before I could protest.

I sighed, and wondered whether I had enough time to wash my hair. ‘How was work?’ I asked Veronica.

‘The usual,’ she said. ‘Translating hours of news broadcasts into Spanish, with a very unsubtle emphasis on how much economic aid we’re giving to Spain, meanwhile inserting a lot of sycophantic commentary about how wonderful Franco is. I can’t understand why we bother – everyone knows the Falangists are jamming the BBC’s signal into Spain and confiscating any private wireless set they can find.’

‘Well – I suppose if any of it gets through, it’ll help keep the Spaniards on our side.’

‘Yes, if
that’s
worth compromising our integrity,’ she said. ‘I need a bath. I don’t suppose the gas is back on yet?’

‘No. But it’s good the telephone’s working again, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, the bliss of living in a modern, civilised city,’ said Veronica, subsiding further into the cushions.

I really wasn’t looking forward to an evening out, but Daphne was determined we should have a good time, and she generally gets her way. She made me put on a brighter shade of lipstick, and she’d forced Julia into a clinging satin evening dress, which was slit up one side to the thigh. Julia was still protesting as we climbed out of the taxi.

‘Really, Daphne, I’m supposed to be in
mourning
.’

‘Well, it’s not
my
fault if that’s the only black evening gown of yours that still fits. You shouldn’t have lost so much weight. Anyway, that pearl choker lends a nice elegant touch, doesn’t it, Sophie?’

‘I’m not drinking, you know,’ said Julia. ‘And I have to be home early. I’m on duty tomorrow.’

‘Whatever you say, darling,’ said Daphne, herding us into the lobby of the Savoy. ‘Oh, look! There they are!’

In much the same way that other women collect shoes or china figurines, Daphne collects extremely handsome men. These came in a set, in matching RAF uniforms. There was a tall, slim, fair one; a strapping one with reddish-gold curls and a puckish grin; and a dark-haired one with the chiselled features of a matinee idol. They had lovely manners, too, rushing to pull out our chairs and light Daphne’s cigarette and retrieve my wrap when it slipped off my shoulders. They were all from the same squadron – an entirely Polish squadron, the dark-haired one explained to me. He said to call him Peter, ‘although it is not my real name, you understand.’

‘Because no one here can pronounce your real name?’

‘Yes, and because I have family in Poland. So if I get shot down over France and the Nazis catch me, they will not know my real name, and they cannot cause trouble for my family.’

He told me he’d escaped from his homeland in 1939 after the Nazis invaded, and had eventually made his way to France, and then England. His two brothers, both Polish army officers, had disappeared, but his sister had written to him a year ago to say that she and their mother were safe at their country estate. He hadn’t heard anything since. At this, his eyes darkened from blue to slate. So I told him a bit about Montmaray, and the two of us proceeded to spend a pleasant half hour roundly abusing the Nazis.