The Wayward Wife (12 page)

A complimentary decanter of sherry had been supplemented by whisky, gin and a dozen brown ales that Basil had purchased at his own expense and hidden in the office. Three guests, including Vivian, Larry the sound controller, Susan and, of course, the ‘star' of the show, Robert Gaines, were gathered in the guest lounge to celebrate the achievement of pulling off a programme that had threatened to become a disaster.

Basil was supping ale from the bottle and whisky from a glass, turn and turn about, when an envoy arrived from Whitehall, accompanied by the Assistant Director General in full evening dress to lead Baz away to face the music in the Controller's office.

‘What,' said Mr Stanhope, a well-known authority on international affairs, ‘are they going to do to him?'

‘Either offer him a knighthood or execute him on the spot,' said Vivian. ‘Almost certainly the latter.'

‘I didn't think it went too badly after that rocky start,' said the other guest contributor, novelist Angus Bowman.

‘Losing our friend Pieter to the Luftwaffe was rather more than a rocky start,' Vivian said. ‘How well did you know the young man, Robert?'

‘Fact is, I never met the guy,' Bob said. ‘I fixed him up through a contact in our Paris office.'

‘I still don't see what the fuss is about,' Angus Bowman said. ‘Basil couldn't possibly have known the Germans would stage a raid in the middle of his broadcast.'

‘Death by radio,' Bob Gaines said. ‘I guess it's not the done thing. I wonder what the British press will make of it?'

‘The columnists will love it,' Angus Bowman predicted. ‘Beaverbrook's boys will have a field day.'

Mr Stanhope said, ‘I'm still not clear if we were meant to be speaking up for Britain or speaking out against Germany.'

‘Which,' Susan put in, ‘is something we're not really supposed to do – speak out against Germany.'

‘When's your next broadcast?' Mr Stanhope asked.

‘Tuesday,' Susan told him.

‘Will it be cancelled?'

‘I doubt it,' Susan said, ‘but our scripts are bound to be censored, every last nut and bolt tightened to ensure we give no offence to anyone.'

‘I shouldn't have gone for Senator Wheeler with quite so much venom,' Vivian said. ‘I probably sounded like a shrieking harridan.'

‘You sounded just grand, Miss Proudfoot,' Larry assured her. ‘Not like a woman at all.'

‘That's comforting,' Vivian said drily as the lounge door opened and Basil returned.

‘On the carpet, Mr Willets?' Larry asked.

‘Actually,' Basil said, ‘no.'

‘Well, what did the big cheese want with you?' said Vivian. ‘Was it a pat on the head or a smack on the bum?'

‘Someone in the Ministry of Information wants to have a word with me,' Basil said. ‘That's all.'

‘The fellow must have some clout if he can drag the Assistant DG away from the dinner table to deliver a message to a humble producer,' said Vivian.

‘You do realise,' Mr Stanhope said, ‘that you've given the ministry an ideal opportunity to meddle in programme content.'

‘That' – Basil wiggled his eyebrows – ‘is what concerns the DG most of all: government intervention. I've just been reminded in no uncertain terms that the BBC, while loyal to King and country, is
not
Whitehall's plaything.'

‘My God!' said Mr Stanhope. ‘Half of Europe's being trodden under the jackboot and the BBC is still concerned with keeping up its reputation for impartiality.'

‘Whatever the fuss is about it seems we're full steam ahead for Tuesday,' Basil said. ‘All hands to the pump first thing. Meanwhile, drink up, gentlemen. I'm off home.' He offered Viv his hand. ‘Are you coming with me?'

‘For what purpose?' Vivian asked suspiciously.

‘To cook my supper, of course,' Basil answered, then, with a bow, added, ‘Ta-ta for now,' and, ushering Vivian before him, toddled off into the night.

Reading a newspaper while riding a bicycle was an art Danny had never mastered. It seemed to come naturally to Silwyn Griffiths, though. He pegged the paper against the junction of the handlebars, steered with his elbows and pedalled the old Raleigh effortlessly while scanning the day-old copy of the
Daily Mirror
he'd plucked from Mr Pell's paper rack.

‘I see they're still going on about it,' he said, while Danny wobbled along beside him. ‘True, it's on page five but there's also an editorial comment. Public interest is obviously keen. Do you want to know what it says?'

‘Not particularly.'

‘You've heard it all from the Pells anyway,' Griff said. ‘High drama on the airwaves. Pity we missed it. Are we stopping off for a pint?'

‘Probably not a good idea,' said Danny, ‘not with a long shift ahead of us.'

‘I bow to your sagacity,' Griff said. ‘I'm barely conscious as it is.' He sat back in the saddle and yawned. ‘Incidentally, he isn't dead.'

‘Who isn't dead?'

‘The Dutchman.'

‘What Dutchman?' said Danny, who knew perfectly well what Dutchman.

‘Pieter: the fellow who was being interviewed when the bombs started falling. Oh, come on now, Cahill, you can't fool me. I know you're interested,' Griffiths said. ‘In any case, Pieter, the hero of the hour, is slightly less of a hero now the
Standard
has tracked him down. Singed eyebrows doth not a martyr make. That's the fickleness of fame for you. Nary a word about eighteen dead airmen or the destruction of an operational Allied airfield which, by this time, has probably been overrun by Nazi tanks.'

‘Try the front page, Griff,' Danny suggested.

‘No point.' Griff let the newspaper float away behind him. ‘No point in keeping yesterday's news when it's out of date before it hits the streets. Lord knows what fresh disasters have occurred since this morning. Doubtless Fritz what's-his-name will be shouting the odds about the cowardly French fleeing across the Meuse and trying to convince us that the peasants in Picardy are lining up with open arms to welcome their German liberators. Are you sure you don't want to drop in at the Greenhill for a slurp? Kate might be there.'

‘Kate won't,' said Danny. ‘She's on until midnight.'

Griff and Danny had ridden home from Wood Norton at eight that lovely Whit Sunday morning and were riding back in the hazy sunshine of Sunday afternoon for another long stint with pencils, scissors and paste.

Stooped over the handlebars, sweating in the heat, they swooped down, shoulder to shoulder, into the town.

Shops were closed but soldiers and local girls, pretty in their Sunday best, were strolling the streets. Folk were gathered at the gates of churches too, for morning and evening services had been bolstered by special Whitsun prayer meetings as if, Griff said, the God of our fathers had come into His own again.

They were still a half-mile shy of their destination when a camouflaged lorry roared past, almost knocking them down. The lorry was followed by two unmarked motorcars, long and lean and black, then by a van with blacked-out windows, all the vehicles travelling at top speed.

Griff steadied the Raleigh and wiped dust from his eyes. ‘Someone's in a hurry,' he said. ‘The army on the move?'

‘Nah, it's not an army exercise,' Danny said. ‘I've seen enough of those black cars in my time: coppers.'

‘Couldn't possibly be heading our way, could they?'

‘Aye,' Danny said, pedalling faster. ‘They could.'

He entered the yard from the lane at the back of the terrace and sidled past the brick-built lavatory that the council had been promising to replace with an indoor facility since Ronnie had been in pantaloons.

Ronnie had taken Billy to the park and wouldn't be home before five. Breda was washing shirts in a tub at the sink when she spotted the intruder through the lattice of paper strips Ronnie had glued to the kitchen window to protect the glass from bomb blast.

Craning her neck, she scowled at the man whose arrival was observed only by next door's cat perched on top of the dividing wall. His beard was grizzled-grey and bushy. His beret and heavy half-length black coat reminded her of Rabbi Abrahams who'd run a mission for the poor out of the synagogue in Fletcher Street and had had a kind word for everyone, Jew, Christian or Hindu, until he'd passed away last year.

The stranger carried a brown paper package under one arm but, as far she could tell, no gun. He certainly didn't look like one of Harry King's henchmen. Even so, she dug the coal hammer from the bucket by the hearth and, hiding it in a fold of her apron, opened the back door a couple of inches and growled, ‘What you after, then?'

He glanced left, right and behind him before answering: ‘Breda, darlin', for God's sake let me in.'

‘Daddy?' Breda said. ‘Is it really you?'

‘'Course it's really me,' Leo Romano said and Breda, grabbing his arm, yanked him indoors.

The ornate gates of Wood Hall estate lay open, entry barred not by a couple of squaddies but by what appeared to be half a battalion of military policemen armed to the teeth with rifles and batons. Fortunately Griff and Danny were lightly clad in open-necked shirts and flannel trousers, otherwise the inspection might have been embarrassing. As it was, the fact that they had bicycles and knew how to ride them was reason enough for suspicion.

‘What the devil's going on?' Griffiths was injudicious enough to enquire and, before he knew it, had the point of a bayonet resting against his chest.

Danny kept the bike between himself and the MP in charge. He handed over his pass, his identity card and, as a hasty afterthought, his gas mask case.

‘Kaa-ill? What sort of a name's that?'

‘Cay-hill,' said Danny apologetically. ‘It's Scottish.'

‘Never heard of it.'

‘Oh, it's common enough,' Griff began. ‘Irish in orig— What? Yes, of course, sir. Sorry.'

They could make out the Hall bathed in tranquil light, Mrs Smith's villa and, partly screened by shrubs, the long-bonneted motorcars drawn up on the grass in front of the huts. Men were being led from the huts and herded into a van and Mr Gregory, M Unit's supervisor, was waving his arms and shouting.

The MP handed them back their passes and signalled to the guards to let them through the gates. Danny and Griff, not daring to speak, wheeled their bicycles up the driveway towards the huts outside of which the entire Wood Norton staff was assembled, including engineers brought down from the hill.

‘How, pray tell,' Mr Gregory was shouting, ‘am I supposed to supply over forty government departments with essential information when you're purloining my best men?'

The officer in charge, a uniformed copper with gold braid on his hat, ignored the supervisor's furious protests and the cries of the prisoners who, Danny noted, were clad in shirtsleeves and braces as if they'd been dragged bodily from the benches.

‘That's old Friedelmann. What the devil are they doing with him? Christ, is he in handcuffs? Don't tell me he's in handcuffs?' Griffiths said. ‘Look, they've got Greiner and Olbrich too. Have we made a deal with Adolf to hand over all our Jews, or what?'

A struggle in the doorway of M Unit's hut revealed little Thomas Heckroth, a jovial imp of a man and one of the unit's best translators. He was arm-locked by two burly policemen and backed by an MP with a baton which, even as Griff and Danny watched, was placed across Thomas's neck with enough force to bring him to his knees.

‘Three years in a Nazi labour camp,' Griff said. ‘How can they possibly mistake Heckroth for a fascist?'

‘My wife, please find my wife,' Thomas Heckroth pleaded as he was bundled into the back of the van.

Mr Gregory had been joined by Mr Harrison and three other supervisors, all clamouring to be shown warrants of arrest which, it appeared, were not forthcoming.

Hanging on to their bicycles, Griff and Danny stopped some way short of the crowd.

Kate appeared from behind the editing hut, accompanied by four or five young women who gathered about Griffiths and Danny. Griff lowered his bicycle to the grass then put his arm around one of the typists, Ursula, while Femi, a good-looking Finnish girl, rested her head on his shoulder.

‘What's goin' on?' Danny said.

‘They're arresting all the Germans and Austrians,' Kate informed him. ‘The police have already pounced on those in the village, Jews, non-Jews and anti-fascists all bundled in with Nazis, semi-Nazis and any other poor soul who might be considered a threat.'

‘What will they do with them?' Ursula asked.

‘Stick them in internment camps for the duration, I imagine,' Griff answered. ‘Guilty until proven innocent, that's what war does to natural justice. No surprise, really. Thank God, I can trace my ancestry back to Gwyn ap Nudd or they'd have me in handcuffs just for riding a bicycle.'

‘Mr Gregory will sort it out, won't he?' said Ursula. Neither Griff nor Danny had the gall to inform her that Mr Gregory was just as helpless as the prisoners in the face of emergency orders. ‘What about their wives? Who'll tell their wives? Or will they take the women too?'

‘Not you, Ursula,' Griff said and, giving the beautiful Finn a squeeze, added, ‘Nor you, Femi. Danny's right: Germans and Austrians only.'

‘Until Mussolini throws in with Hitler,' Danny said, ‘after which there won't be an ice-cream seller or spaghetti house waiter left in London an' we'll lose our four Italians.'

Doors at the rear of the van slammed. On a signal from the policeman in the braided hat, the van reversed across the grass and, gathering speed, vanished down the driveway. The coppers scrambled into the motorcars and clambered into the back of the lorry and, within minutes, were gone too, leaving nothing behind but dust.