Chapter Five

Dawn cast a hazy pink glow over the shadowy gloom as Vi, Tilly and Mrs. Harris, along with their neighbors, emerged from the dank, smelly, communal air raid shelter at the end of the street. It had been a long night of seemingly endless bombardment. Vi breathed a sigh of relief as she saw they had escaped the Luftwaffe’s attention. She had heard the distant sound of explosions and the returning antiaircraft fire, which seemed far enough away, but, even still, it was always a huge relief to see the house standing, especially after what had happened to her own home a few short miles away.

“Some other poor blighters’ turn,” Tilly murmured.

Vi nodded, feeling guilty.

Back at Mrs. Harris’s house, they all trooped into the kitchen and the landlady made straight for the kettle. “Let’s all have a nice cup of tea,” she said, as if that one beverage could set the world to rights.

A scrape at the front door. It opened to reveal Sandrine, poised and elegant as ever, dressed in an impeccable black suit and high heels, her hair coiffed and makeup perfect.

“Where the hell have you been?” Tilly advanced toward her. “And what do you mean by sneaking off like that?”

Sandrine looked her up and down as if she was something nasty she would like to scrape off her shoe. “Who exactly do you think you are speaking to? What business is it of yours where I go or what I do?”

“Oh, excuse me, madam, but it is very much our business when you bring the ARP to our house because you light up the entire street and then refuse to answer your door. And then we find you’ve even changed the bloody lock.”

Sandrine blinked once and moved to go up the stairs. Tilly blocked her way. “Oh no, you don’t. Not until you answer my questions.”

“I am not answerable to you. Get out of my way.”

“I’m not shifting one inch. I presume you waited until we had left for the shelter before you let yourself out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have been out since shortly after dinner.”

Tilly’s voice rose. “That’s a lie.”

“You couldn’t have,” Vi said. “The ARP warden said there was a flash of light coming from your room. This was around the time we heard a noise from there.”

“What sort of noise?” Sandrine’s face was expressionless.

“Like drumming.”

“Impossible. I told you, I went out a few minutes after dinner.”

“How come we never heard you leave?” Tilly said.

“I don’t thump around as you two like to do.”

“Come on, Sandrine, you know you were there.” Vi was becoming exasperated by the woman’s barefaced lies.

“And what about the lock, then?” Tilly said. “You’re not allowed to go round changing the lock on your door. This is Mrs. Harris’s house, not yours.”

“Why did you do it?” Mrs. Harris’s voice startled Vi. She had never heard the older woman sound so angry before. “And when? I’m here most of the time and you certainly didn’t have it changed when I was in the house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t had the lock changed.”

“Then why wouldn’t Mrs. Harris’s key work?” Tilly asked.

“I have no idea. Maybe you used the wrong key.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Tilly turned to Mrs. Harris. “May I?”

“Of course, dear.” The landlady grabbed the bunch of keys and the four of them trooped up the stairs. Mrs. Harris selected a key, inserted it in the lock, turned it and the door clicked open.

Tilly and Vi exchanged glances. Vi stared at the partially open door in disbelief. Sandrine pushed past her, into her room.

“Satisfied?” She slammed the door shut, and immediately locked it.

Tilly looked helplessly at their landlady, whose expression was one of disappointment. “I swear I tried all the keys. Twice. None of them worked.

“I can vouch for that,” Vi said.

“You saw her do it?” Mrs. Harris asked.

“Yes.”

The landlady said nothing. She made her way back down the stairs. Tilly motioned Vi to follow her into her room.

Vi sat on Tilly’s bed as the other girl shut the door before coming over to join her.

“What do you make of that?” she asked.

Vi shrugged. “I definitely didn’t hear her go out last evening. The ARP man couldn’t be wrong, and you tried the key and it didn’t work. But now…. Something peculiar’s going on, but I haven’t a clue what. Have you written up that directive yet?”

Tilly nodded. “I’ll finish it later when I write my diary entry for today. I’m going to write about what happened last night there too. In detail.”

* * *

Bleary-eyed from not enough sleep, the two girls made their way to work. There seemed to be even more sandbags today, stacked up one story high, leaving only a narrow gap for people to enter and leave the building. It was only eight thirty, but Miss Ogilvy looked as if she had been on duty for hours. She was there to greet them when they walked into their office.

“Ah, there you both are. Busy day today. Plenty of work to keep you out of mischief.”

“Yes, Miss Ogilvy,” they replied. Vi had a memory of being in school, standing up when a member of staff walked in, speaking in unison to return the teacher’s formal “Good morning” or “Good afternoon.”

Miss Ogilvy nodded. “Miss Harrington? You are to report to Miss Brayshaw’s office on the second floor at precisely eleven o’clock. You are to be interviewed for a position downstairs. Don’t be late; Miss Brayshaw hates to be kept waiting and there will be an official from the Civil Service with her.”

Vi blinked hard. “But I haven’t applied for another position.”

“I didn’t say you had. Your work has been noted and they wish to see you. It’s quite an honor to be chosen. If you are successful, this will mean a considerable rise in your wages.”

“May I ask what the position is?”

“You may not. They will tell you all you need to know when you get there. Now, get on with your work, girls.”

Miss Ogilvy swept out of the office, her heels tapping down the corridor.

Tilly hung up her hat and coat. Vi joined her.

“Well, Miss Harrington. You’re going up in the world.” Was Tilly jealous? Maybe a little, but she was doing a good job hiding it in her voice.

Vi meanwhile found it hard to concentrate on the letters she was typing. Why had she been chosen? Tilly had been here longer. Six whole months longer. And what did go on downstairs? With the war on, she knew better than to ask too many questions. She had seen people coming in and out of a door on the ground floor, which was permanently guarded by a uniformed soldier. It had to be something important and probably top secret, but more than that? She hadn’t a clue.

* * *

Her mouth dry, Vi moistened her lips as best she could and tapped on Miss Brayshaw’s door.

“Come in.”

Miss Brayshaw adjusted the spectacles she was wearing and stood as Vi entered. Next to the dark-haired woman, a middle-aged man in a navy pinstripe suit puffed at a pipe.

“Miss Harrington, this is Mr. Glennister.” She gathered a sheaf of papers together and moved away from the desk. “I will leave you to it.”

The man lowered his pipe. “Thank you, Miss Brayshaw. Please take a seat, Miss Harrington.”

Vi did as she was bid, and Miss Brayshaw closed the door quietly behind her.

The man screwed the cap back onto his pen and laid it down precisely in front of him. Dead center.

He fingered his moustache, which, like his hair, was black, flecked with gray. He wore his navy pinstripe suit like a uniform. It had been immaculately pressed and there was not a speck of fluff or a fleck of dandruff that Vi could see. To add to the traditional look, he wore an old-fashioned detachable wing collar. Just like her father’s when he went to work.

“Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Miss Harrington. But careless talk and all that.” He spoke like an ex-Eton or Harrow boy and he sported what looked like a typical old school tie – navy with a diagonal pale blue stripe. His neatly trimmed moustache harked back to a military career at some stage, probably during the last conflict. He seemed to be the right age. Late forties, fifty maybe, certainly no older.

“I quite understand, Mr. Glennister.”

“Now, I expect you’re wondering why I asked to see you.”

“Yes, I am actually.” So, he had specifically requested to see her? But why?

“What I am about to tell you is strictly for consumption within these four walls. Is that clear?”

“Of course, sir. There’s a war on.”

A smile twitched the corners of the man’s mouth. “Precisely. I see we are going to get on famously. Miss Harrington, do you have any idea of the nature of the work being carried out in the basement of this building?”

Vi shook her head.

“I should have been most disturbed if you had. You will learn more in due course but, for now, suffice it to say that it is work of the highest importance and the greatest level of secrecy. You have already signed the Official Secrets Act, of course, but this goes far and beyond that. You will be unable to tell anyone what you do. And by anyone, I mean precisely that. Not your parents, friends, current colleagues, boyfriend. Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Harrington?”

“Not at present, sir. There was someone….” Why was she babbling? She shut her mouth.

“Good. Good. Should that situation change, however, you would not be able to tell him. And that embargo will not end on cessation of this war. You will be bound by this potentially for the rest of your life, or at least until such information is no longer prejudicial to national security. As far as anyone will be concerned, your war work was a simple office job within the Civil Service as a shorthand typist, rattling out boring old letters of no interest to anyone. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“The reality will be far different. Your wages will increase to two pounds ten shillings per week to reflect the importance of your work, but I should keep that under your hat. Now, I understand you are friendly with a Miss Matilda Layton. You work together and also share digs. Is that correct?”

“Tilly? Yes, that’s correct.”

Mr. Glennister looked down at a sheet of typed paper. Vi could see a photograph was attached to it. Tilly’s photograph.

“Yes, yes. She is of good character. I shouldn’t think she’ll try and press you for answers so I don’t anticipate any trouble on that score but, remember, you cannot tell her anything either. You can tell her you are working downstairs but nothing more.”

“I understand. Tilly knows the score. She won’t ask awkward questions.”

“She’s one of our Mass Observation diarists, I believe. Quite a regular contributor by all accounts and a pretty thorough one too.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize their reports were of interest outside the project itself. Tilly did tell me about it and suggested I might like to give it a go.”

“Occasionally something is mentioned which flags up a note for our attention. As for you becoming a Mass Observationist, I shouldn’t if I were you. You wouldn’t be able to report much, would you? Make no mistake, Miss Harrington, your hours are going to increase. There may indeed be days when you don’t make it home at all. Naturally, should that happen, a bed would be made available to you. Here. Downstairs, that is.”

Vi nodded, her mind a turmoil of mixed emotions. On the one hand, a thrill of excitement coursed up and down her spine, while, on the other, a fear of the unknown. Just what was going to be expected of her in this new, shadowy role? Would she be up to it?

“May I ask a question, sir?”

Mr. Glennister relit his pipe with a match and puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke. He blew the match out and dropped it in the ashtray. “You may indeed ask. Whether or not I shall be able to answer depends on what you ask.”

“Of course. It’s just…I wondered why you had chosen me for this job? I mean Tilly…Miss Layton…has been here much longer than I have and….”

“There are other factors to be taken into consideration, over and above length of service, Miss Harrington. I am quite sure Miss Layton would have done an admirable job, but it was felt that, from the point of view of character and certain other factors, you were the best choice. Your father has been a career civil servant, I understand.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Thirty-three years’ service so far and not one blemish. You may not realize but he is highly thought of among his peers. Your brother too has already distinguished himself in the RAF.”

Vi felt a swelling of pride. “He was shot down over enemy territory and made it back over the line. He was mentioned in dispatches for his bravery in the face of extreme enemy action.”

Mr. Glennister puffed at his pipe. “Narrowly missed getting a gong, I believe. His commanding officer was most put out. He said if anyone deserved a medal it was George Harrington.”

“He came home safely. That’s all we cared about,” Vi said.

“Of course, Miss Harrington. That’s all any of us can hope for.”

A brief wistful expression, a frown. Had he lost a son, perhaps? As quickly as the frown had appeared, the man’s face resumed its former serious mask. He stood, pipe in hand. “I think we are finished here. All that is left to do is for me to wish you well in your new position.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall do my best.”

“I’m certain of it. Ask Miss Brayshaw to show you downstairs. Someone will have collected your things from your old office so you can go straight down and start work.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Harrington. And good luck.”

Miss Brayshaw smiled as Vi emerged. “Gracious, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I can’t believe what just happened. I’m to work downstairs. I always wondered what went on down there.”

“Well, now you’re about to find out. And you will never have guessed. Not in a thousand years. Come along, then.”

They made their way down the single flight of stairs to the ground floor and Miss Brayshaw led them to a strong metal door that reminded Vi of the kind of doors she had seen on the ferry to the Isle of Wight. To the right of this was a much grander wooden door guarded by a soldier, rifle in hand, his face expressionless, staring straight forward.

“Come along now, don’t dawdle.”

Vi quickened her pace and followed her new supervisor through the metal door, which clanged shut behind them. A marine stood like a waxwork, but Vi was sure that rifle he held was loaded and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Security was certainly tight here, with identity checks at every manned post. Ahead, a long, winding staircase stretched seemingly endlessly. Where was ‘downstairs’ exactly? In the bowels of the earth?

They finally arrived at the bottom and Vi took in her surroundings. They were at one end of a long, dimly lit corridor. Nearby, another soldier was guarding what appeared to be a small kitchen. Maybe they were afraid someone might steal the rations? Around her, the walls were painted a pale cream and closed doors were numbered. Here and there a nameplate indicated the presence of a senior personage although Vi didn’t recognize any of the names. In the distance, phones rang and voices clamored to be heard.

Tall cupboards stretched along one wall. Alcoves housed typists working at makeshift desks, so despite the impression of plenty of office space, there clearly wasn’t enough to go round.

Fire buckets, asbestos fire blankets and chemical extinguishers were positioned at regular intervals. At least their safety was being considered, even if, so far, she had seen no sign of any toilets.

As they turned a corner, the volume increased. A smell of cooking – maybe a beef stew or something similar – wafted toward them, along with laughter and the clatter of plates and cups.

“Officers’ mess,” Miss Brayshaw said, indicating an open door through which Vi glimpsed rows of uniformed men sitting at long tables. Farther on, a nameplate proclaimed General Ismay. The name rang a vague bell and Vi remembered typing his name on various documents she had been given when she worked upstairs.

They passed a door painted bright red. It looked heavy, made of iron probably, certainly substantial. A little farther and, over a door, she saw a nameplate that made her stop.

The Prime Minister.

“Ah, yes,” Miss Brayshaw said. “That is indeed the Old Man’s office when he’s down here, which is quite regularly. And when he is, we signal to each other. You’ll hear a tapping on the pipes. That tells us he’s around and about and we need to be quiet. He hates noise. You’ll be using a noiseless typewriter for that very reason. He cannot stand the clatter of typewriter keys. Drives him insane. For a man of his age, Mr. Churchill has excellent hearing.”

“But…but….” Vi hadn’t stuttered like that since she was an awkward teenager.

“Now you see the reason for all the secrecy. This is where the war is really conducted – along these corridors, with tons of cement between us and anything Hitler chooses to throw at us. Welcome to the Cabinet War Rooms.”