“I fully intend to,” Pamela said. She bent to retrieve her suitcase from under the bed and opened it, ready to start packing.
The train from Bletchley seemed to take an eternity. It was shunted into sidings several times to let goods trains and troop trains pass. As the train entered London, recent bomb damage became evident. Blackened shells of buildings, a house with one wall missing revealing a complete bedroom still intact with a brass bed, a quilt with pink roses on it, and a china wash basin in the corner. On the next street a whole row had been demolished, yet one fish-and-chip shop stood unscathed in the midst of destruction with a notice tacked to the door, “Still Open for Business.” Pamela shut her eyes, willing the images to go away. She was desperately tired, having come straight from work, but even the rhythmic rocking of the train couldn’t lull her to sleep. She had been decidedly on edge, ever since she had overheard a conversation in her hut the night before.
The long hut in which she worked was partitioned into small rooms on either side of a central corridor. In the middle of her shift, she had needed to heed the call of nature. She had to walk the length of the hut to go to the ladies’ lavatory at the far end. She had almost reached the far door when she remembered she had left her torch behind. In the blackout, she would not find the lavatories without her torch. As she returned, she heard two male voices, speaking softly.
“So are you going to tell her before she goes on leave?”
“Absolutely not. If you want to know, I still think it’s a mistake. I’m going to try and talk the old man out of it.”
“But she’s damned good. You know that as well as I do. The right person for the job.”
“Is she? She’s one of them.”
“She could prove to be useful in her position.”
“Depends where her loyalty lies—with us or with them. I don’t think we should take the risk, old chap.”
Then one of them walked across and closed the door. And Pamela was absolutely sure the conversation was not meant for her ears and that they were talking about her.
So what could they possibly mean? she asked herself. Had they any reason to question her loyalty? And to whom did they think she might be loyal? Surely they couldn’t suspect she was a German spy? She waited impatiently for the train to pull into Euston Station.
Charing Cross Station was in its usual state of chaos as Pamela came up from the Underground that had taken her across London from Euston: servicemen of the various branches tramping past to a new assignment or going home on leave prior to being shipped out to Africa or the Far East. Small children with labels around their necks waiting together in a group, ready to be evacuated, while mothers stood watching behind the barrier, staring with anxious eyes. The train on the adjoining platform was about to pull out. Almost every window had a serviceman leaning out, saying good-bye to his sweetheart or his mother. One girl stood on tiptoe to kiss her darling. “Take care of yourself, Joe,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine,” he answered. “I’m like a cat with nine lives, I am.”
Pamela looked at them with pity and longing. How many young men had said that same thing and never returned? And yet, she envied the way they gazed into each other’s eyes, as if nobody else existed in the whole world. Her train was already standing at the platform, and she fought her way aboard with the rest of the waiting crowd. She had chosen a carriage with a corridor and squeezed past soldiers with their kit bags who had already taken up position there, chatting and smoking as if this were a Sunday jaunt.
Some of them called out harmlessly flirtatious things as she passed. “Sit here, darling.” One patted a kit bag. “We’ll keep you entertained during the trip. Care for a Woodbine?”
She brushed them off good-naturedly, knowing that the bravado was necessary, and a smile from a pretty girl was just what they needed right now. When she found a compartment with an empty seat, she took it, gratefully. The carriage was already occupied by a mother with a toddler, sucking a thumb contentedly on her lap, a young Wren in uniform, and two stout middle-aged ladies, complaining bitterly that the railways no longer provided ladies-only compartments. “It’s a disgrace having to squeeze past those men,” the chubbier one said. “Do you know that one of them said, ‘Take it easy, mother. You’re not exactly giving me a thrill.’”
“Shocking. The world has gone mad.”
They looked at Pamela for sympathy. “I hope they didn’t accost you, my dear?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Pamela smiled.
A whistle blew. There were running feet and slamming doors as the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Those newly arrived started moving past, along the corridor. Pamela turned away and stared out the window as the train crossed the railway bridge over the Thames, and a panorama of the City of London came into view, with the dome of St. Paul’s rising bravely among ruins. When they pulled into Waterloo Station on the south bank, she saw that someone had come to lean against the door of her compartment—a young man in a tweed jacket. There was something definitely familiar about the way that dark hair curled around his collar. She wrenched open the compartment door, making the man step away hastily and turn around.
“Ben? Good heavens. It is you,” she said, her face lighting up. “I thought I recognised the back of your head.”
“Pamela?” He looked at her incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I suppose. Going home for a few days. Come on in. There’s room for one more.”
“Is there? I thought it might be ladies only. If the other ladies don’t mind . . .”
“Of course they don’t.” Pamela patted the seat across from her, and Ben put his bag up on the rack.
“What a coincidence that we’re going home at the same time,” she said, still smiling at him. “It is so good to see you. It’s been ages.”
“I got a brief glimpse of you in church last Christmas,” he said. “You’re looking awfully well.”
“And you, too. So they’re not working you too hard?”
“A lot of boring stuff. Rather repetitious, but necessary, I suppose,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.
“You’re with one of the ministries, aren’t you?”
“Attached to one of them. Research. Looking up lots of useless information. Aren’t you doing the same sort of thing?”
“Similar. Clerical stuff. Frightfully boring filing and things. But someone has to do it.”
“Are you in London itself?” he asked.
“No, my branch has been evacuated outside to Berkshire. Have to keep the records safe from bombs, you know. How about you?”
“I’ve been in London, but I’m not sure where I might be sent next. It seems they are sending everyone out to the country these days.”
There was a silence. They exchanged a smile.
Ben cleared his throat. “Any word on Jeremy?”
Pamela’s face brightened. “You haven’t heard? You obviously haven’t been reading the papers recently.”
“Never read them. Always full of bad news.”
She leaned closer to him across the aisle. “He’s home, Ben. He escaped from the camp and made it all the way across France. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Amazing,” Ben said. “Well, if anyone could escape from a prison camp and make it halfway across Europe without getting caught, it would be Jeremy.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I could hardly believe it when I read it in the newspaper, but I telephoned my family, and he’s actually back at Nethercote, recuperating from his ordeal. You must come with me to see him.”
“Are you sure you want me tagging along?”
“Of course. Jeremy will want to see you as much as he wants to see me. And if he is . . . you know . . . banged up or something . . . well, then, I’d rather have you there with me.”