We'll Meet Again (27 page)

‘I know. We talked about it. In a way he was too much of a gentleman, too soft-hearted for war, but bombing is a fact of life and has to be done if we are to win.’

‘Anything to achieve that is a good thing,’ Esme said. ‘If you could see what is being perpetrated by those beasts on the
countries they occupy, you would not doubt it. We have to cripple the Nazi war machine before the invasion, if it is to succeed.’

Prue turned to her, surprise at the venom in her voice. But then why should she be surprised, after what Esme had been through? ‘You aren’t going back, are you?’ she asked.

‘They won’t let me, or I would. I hate the thought of Gillie over there without me.’

‘I am sure he is glad you are safe. I suppose he would be told?’

‘Yes, I asked them to send a message.’

‘Then try not to worry.’

She watched as they were driven off, then she found her bicycle and went back to Victoria Villa. After dinner she would write to her mother to tell her some of what had happened.

‘Doh ray me …’ Sheila’s clear voice filled her small bedroom as she practised her scales. Bletchley Park had several talented performers besides herself and one of these was a professional singer who had offered to give Sheila singing lessons. Her voice was maturing into that of a seasoned performer and she practised regularly. One day she would make a living as a singer and with hard work and luck would become famous and rich. She needed that ambition to keep her going, to stop her sinking into the abyss of despair. To those around her she appeared to have overcome her grief over the loss of her parents and Charlie, Chris too, but it was still there, still a kind of ache that wouldn’t go away. Her work and, particularly, her membership of the drama group kept her sane.

The fourth Christmas show of the war had come and gone and the New Year begun in the optimistic belief that by the time the next Christmas arrived, the war would be over. She could not even begin to think what she would do then. Bletchley Park was a hive of activity as more and more people joined. The motorcyclists
came and went at all times of the day and night and in all weathers, just as she did her rounds whatever the weather. More buildings were being added and people were being moved from the cramped huts to larger buildings. Hut Twelve, which had had many uses in its time, was now the Education Hut and used for music classes and rehearsals. It was here she was given her singing lessons.

They had been taking their revues round the neighbouring village halls to entertain the local inhabitants and this extended audience had given her valuable experience. And it seemed she was being noticed. Only that morning she had had a letter from the BBC, asking her if she would take part in ‘Music While You Work’, a programme of popular music put out during the day to entertain factory workers doing vital but boring war work. It was a wonderful opportunity and she only hoped she could be given time off to do it.

She stopped singing when she heard the front doorbell and, believing her aunt was out of the house, went to answer it. Johnnie stood on the step. They stared at each other, both equally surprised. ‘Johnnie,’ she said at last. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t know …’ He stopped when he saw someone coming along the hall behind her.

‘Who is it, Sheila?’ Constance had evidently just come in the back door. She was still wearing her jacket and hat.

‘It’s …’ Sheila paused.

‘Captain Howard, ma’am,’ he finished for her. ‘Would you be Mrs Constance Tranter?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then I’ve come to the right place. May I come in?’

Sheila stood to one side, allowing Constance a sight of the man as he stepped into the hall. Her aunt had never had much colour but now her face drained of what there was and she put her hand
out to the wall to steady herself. ‘Who … who are you? Where have you come from?’

‘Captain Johnnie Howard, ma’am, from the US of A. I believe we have a connection …’

‘Connection?’ It was said in a croak, as if the lady had difficulty speaking.

Sheila had never seen her aunt so shaken, she looked as though she were about to faint. Puzzled, she looked from one to the other. Evidently Johnnie’s visit had nothing to do with her. ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

He turned to her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me where you lived? Is Mrs Tranter the aunt you spoke of?’

‘Yes, she is, and there was no reason to tell you, was there? You knew how to contact me …’

‘Through a secret address. What have you got to hide?’

‘Nothing.’

He obviously didn’t believe her. He turned from her to Constance. ‘Can we go somewhere and speak in private? I’ve questions I’d like answered.’

She heaved a huge sigh. ‘You had better come into the drawing room.’

She took off her hat and jacket, handed them to Sheila and led the way. He removed his cap and followed, leaving a puzzled Sheila to hang up her aunt’s clothes on the hallstand and bring up the rear. Constance stopped in the doorway of the sitting room and ushered him in first, then followed and slammed the door in Sheila’s face.

She stood looking at the door, furious that she had been excluded. It was a thick door and they were not raising their voices. What was Johnnie doing here? Whatever it was had certainly upset her aunt. She had never known Constance show emotion of any
kind but what was this? Fear? Anger? She made her way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She had a feeling they would all need a cup of tea and it would give her an opportunity to interrupt them.

Prue came in the back door as she was setting out the tray. Her friend was dealing with the loss of Tim in the only way she knew how, by keeping busy and cheerful. Sheila knew from bitter experience how hard that was, but it could be borne; it had to be borne. Prue was strong and she had a loving family to support her. Sheila envied her that. All she had was Aunt Constance.

‘There’s a jeep parked outside,’ Prue said.

‘Yes, it’s Johnnie. He’s talking to Aunt Constance.’

Prue laughed. ‘You mean he’s come to ask for your hand in marriage? How quaint!’

‘It’s not a bit funny and he hasn’t come for that. He didn’t know I lived here. He told Aunt Constance they had a connection.’

‘Well, the Yanks often try and find their ancestors when they come over here. And Johnnie was born in England after all. Do you think he’s related to your aunt?’

‘If that’s the case, I don’t think he’s altogether welcome. She turned as white as a sheet. I thought she was going to faint.’

‘Really? You mean she recognised him?’

‘How could she? He said he’d never been to England before. Unless he lied …’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Prue walked up the hall, opened the drawing room door and pretended surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tranter, I didn’t realise you had company.’ And then to Johnnie. ‘Hallo, Captain.’

‘You know him too?’ Constance said.

‘Why yes, Sheila and I met him at my home. He is stationed at Longfordham. Does it matter?’

‘No, not all.’

‘Sheila is making tea. Shall I ask her to bring some in for you?’

‘No.’ Constance snapped. ‘The captain is just leaving.’

‘Oh, what a pity. I imagine he has driven from Longfordham. I’d hate to send him back without offering him refreshment.’

‘Oh, very well.’

Prue turned back to Sheila. ‘Bring it in.’

Sheila set the tray down on the table beside her aunt, who was shaking so much she rattled the cups and spilt the tea in the saucers.

‘Here, let me do it,’ Prue said. ‘You seem to have had a shock. Not bad news, I hope. Johnnie, whatever have you done to the good lady?’

‘I’ve done nothing. I don’t think I’ll stay for tea.’ He rose to go.

‘Are you coming back again?’ Constance asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I want to see any of you again. But at least I know the answers to my questions now.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t know anything. They lied …’

‘I know that because of what you did, my father was a bigamist and his mother lost her reason. How d’you think that makes me feel?’

‘Is that true?’ Sheila asked.

‘It is fact.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then don’t say anything.’ He picked up his cap and made for the door. ‘If you want to know the truth, ask her.’ He waved the cap at Constance and left them. They heard the jeep start up and roar off down the road.

Sheila and Prue looked at each other and then at Constance. She was crying. Tears were raining down her face and she was
making no effort to stop them. It was such an unheard-of display of emotion that they were both taken aback.

‘Come on, Mrs Tranter,’ Prue said, moving to take her arm. ‘Let me take you up to your room to lie down. Sheila will make some fresh tea and you can tell me all about it.’

Sheila watched in astonishment as her aunt allowed Prue to help her to her feet and guide her upstairs. All the stiffness had gone out of her. As she was led away, she kept saying, ‘I loved him. I wouldn’t have hurt him. I was ill.’ It went on and on until the bedroom door shut on her. Sheila picked up the tea tray and took it back to the kitchen and began washing up, lost in speculation. Was Johnnie Constance’s son? What had happened and why was he so angry? He’d been angry with her too. It wasn’t her fault whatever it was.

Johnnie was hurting badly. And he was mad. All his life people had been lying to him. His whole life was a deception from beginning to end. Grandfather Fletcher had warned him not to go meddling, but he had taken no notice and insisted on being told the truth. He should have left the whole thing alone, put it behind him and gone back to believing the story he had been told in his childhood. Instead he had tormented himself by digging deeper. And he had dug a great hole for himself.

That woman, Constance Tranter, had given birth to him. She was the mother he had wondered about all his life, had wanted to meet, and now he wished he had stayed away. Pops was a bigamist. He and Mom had never been properly married. Mom must have known that and yet she condoned it. She had even taken on the raising of his baby. The reason, according to Grandfather Fletcher, was that his real mother was mad and had tried to smother him with a pillow and his life had only been saved when her husband
had come home from work early and caught her at it.

‘He couldn’t leave you with her, could he?’ Grandfather Fetcher had said. ‘He couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t try again. So he picked you up and walked straight out and never went back.’

‘Did he come to you?’

‘No, to his parents. They lived in Derby. They were old and his father was an invalid. His mother couldn’t cope with a baby who cried a lot and a son who didn’t know whether to report his wife for attempted murder or just forget her. Then he met Freda again. They had been friends in their school days and she had always had a soft spot for him. Well, you know the rest.’

‘He changed his name.’

‘Yes, he didn’t want his wife chasing them. That’s why they went to America, so she couldn’t find him. Or you. A new life they said, where no one knew their past.’

‘You knew all about it at the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a helluva secret to keep all these years.’

‘It was done for the best. No one would have been the wiser if you hadn’t come over here and asked so many questions.’

‘But why did my mother try to smother me?’

The old man had shrugged. ‘Who knows, Clifford didn’t wait to find out.’

‘I want to find out.’

‘Boy, haven’t you had enough?’

‘I can’t leave it at that. Where can I find her?’

‘I don’t know. It’s too long ago.’

‘OK, so where did my father live before he brought me to Derbyshire?’

‘Down south somewhere. Freda might know but I don’t think it’s right to pester her. She’s worried enough about you
being in those bombers and flying over Germany. You will have to ask his mother.’

He should have known it would do no good to go back to that sanatorium; Verity had been no more lucid than she had been before. His next destination had been Somerset House to look up his own birth. He had it in black and white: Jonathan Tranter, born on the sixth of June 1918 in Bletchley, father Clifford Tranter, engineer, mother, Constance Robins. How his father had managed to obtain a birth certificate for him in the name of Jonathan Howard, which was evidently a forgery, he had no idea. Armed with the proper one he had high-tailed it straight to Bletchley and consulted the pre-war voting register. He wanted it confirmed by the only person who really knew for sure that Jonathan Howard and Jonathan Tranter were one and the same. He no longer had any doubt.

He was suddenly brought out of his reverie by the hooting of a car horn and realised he had strayed to the wrong side of the road. He pulled himself back to the left just in time to avoid a collision. He stopped in a lay-by and switched off the engine. He had better take a minute to pull himself together.

Faced with evidence, Mrs Tranter – he could not think of her as Mother – had blustered that he didn’t understand, that she had never intended to harm him. He just wouldn’t stop crying and she had been worn out with it and unable to cope and she was alone in the house all day with a screaming baby. She had only used the pillow to stop him crying. Clifford had come in, taken one look at her, picked up the baby and left. She hadn’t seen him since. Do wrong to do right, was that what Pops had done? Did all the years of bringing him up, being the best father a man could have, count for nothing? Wasn’t it good that he had been his real father and not an adopted one?

And there was Sheila. His plans to ask her to marry him before he went home at the end of his tour of duty had all crumbled to dust. How much had she known? Had she been lying to him too? She had sure been surprised to see him. Had that been guilt or innocence? Confronting Constance Tranter had not been the end of it. He started the engine, put the jeep in gear and turned back the way he had come.

Sheila finished washing up and took a fresh pot of tea up to her aunt’s room where Prue took the tray from her.