The section of London between South Kensington Tube Station and Knightsbridge was the nexus of the operation to try to feed and clothe the thousands of British servicemen being held prisoner in France, Belgium, Germany and beyond. The War Office’s Central Prisoners of War Committee had moved into premises at Nos 3 and 4 Thurloe Place, in the shadow of the mighty V&A. The Red Cross occupied an adjacent building. A short stroll away, the British Prisoners Aid Society was now situated in an elegant home overlooking Hans Gardens. It had been donated by Lady Greatlock, rent free, and its four floors were stuffed with supplies to be parcelled up and sent to the prisoners. A similar arrangement pertained at 22 and 25 Thurloe Gardens, the home of the British Prisoners of War Food Parcels and Clothing Committee. These grand houses had been gifted by Sir Richard Burbidge, the managing director of Harrods, with No. 25 used for administrative work and parcelling and No. 22 acting as a storage depot.
It was in the main packing room of No. 25 that Mrs Gregson, formerly of the Voluntary Aid Detachment and, subsequently, a spy for Winston Churchill, chalked a list of POW camps on a board, while behind her three dozen women sat at benches, deftly assembling parcels from the various foods laid out before them. Most wore gloves. Despite the stoves and open fire, the house remained cold. Day after day, the temperature outside was struggling to stay above freezing. It made many of them even more aware of the plight of the prisoners.
‘Right, ladies,’ Mrs Gregson said as she copied the names from a piece of paper provided by the Red Cross. ‘The camps here are the ones that are confiscating tinned goods. Holzminden has been added to that list in the past day or so, and there are reports from Dortmund of seizures. Where there are no tins allowed we substitute jars or packets of jam, bacon, sausages, extra cigarettes, rice, oats, maize, curry powder, dates and raisins, Oxo and Marmite. Now we also have a list here of new prisoners, so I need some volunteers to help make up a set of New Capture parcels. Miss Hood, thank you, Mrs Nichols, Miss Kinney.’
She moved the three women into an adjacent, windowless room which, as well as tables laden with food, contained shelves of clothing and ‘comforts’ such as razors and toothbrushes. Every new prisoner received a parcel of towels, shirts, vests, drawers, handkerchief, a muffler, a cardigan and gloves as well as shaving and bathing equipment, hairbrush and comb, a knife, fork and tin opener. They just had to hope that the recipient wasn’t moved before the parcel made its tortuous way over the Channel and through a neutral country to the designated camp.
Mrs Gregson, although the head of department, also mucked in with the creation of the boxes, carefully following the kit list pinned to the wall. Once she had learned that her friend Major Watson was a prisoner of war, she had thrown herself into the work of alleviating the suffering of the incarcerated men. Repatriated prisoners had told of terribly harsh conditions in some camps and that only parcels from home had enabled them to survive. It wasn’t a deliberate policy of privation, they said – the Allied blockade of the ports meant most of the German population was also suffering from malnutrition.
She tried not to think too much about exactly how Watson was faring in all this. It made her lose focus, and even feel a little weepy, when she pictured him in a freezing hut somewhere in Germany, eating his Maconochie rations from a tin. They had been reunited in Suffolk, when she had been asked by Churchill to be his eyes and ears at a top-secret establishment developing the so-called ‘tank’. These adventures had brought her and Watson close although, if she was being frank, the exact nature of that closeness eluded her. It didn’t do to dwell too much on those feelings. He was her friend and confidant – she had even told him about her brief affair with a married officer, now killed – which was enough to be going on with. And, whatever the ultimate reason, she very much wanted him home in England.
‘So, have you news, Mrs Gregson?’ asked Miss Hood, a birdlike creature in her late teens who could sometimes be heard lamenting the devastation the war had had on her social life since she came out.
‘About?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
‘Whether the Queen is coming?’
This was a constant rumour. Queen Mary had already visited the premises of the Central Prisoners of War Committee and the Red Cross. The feeling was that BPOWFPC deserved a show of royal approval.
‘I have not,’ said Mrs Gregson truthfully, ‘although I know the secretary has put in a request.’ The secretary was related to the Queen’s lady of the bedchamber, so the petition was likely to find its way to the keeper of Her Majesty’s appointments. At least she hoped so – Mrs Gregson had to admit ignorance of the machinations of the Royal Household, whereas some of her subordinates had encyclopaedic knowledge of the hierarchy at Buckingham Palace and the other royal residences. And if they had contacts within one of those residences, they were quick to mention it. Mrs Gregson was doing important work, she knew, but the constant reminders and reaffirmations of social status that occurred minute by minute at the voluntary organization were ultimately very tiresome. There were those, she was certain, who resented her elevated position at No. 25 simply because she was not mentioned in Debrett’s.
‘Don’t forget to put in the PR postcard,’ said Mrs Gregson, scooping one out of the rack and laying it on top of the socks and shirt. The men were meant to send the Parcel Received card back to show the supplies were getting through.
There was a knock at the open door. Mrs Gregson looked up to see the slender form of Major Neville Pitt of the War Office. He had his cap in his hands and a slight colour on his cheeks as he always did when confronted with a room full of women. He reached up and tugged at his moustache, as if checking it wouldn’t come away in a stiff breeze.
‘Mrs Gregson,’ he said, ‘do you have a moment?’
‘Of course.’ She tried not to catch the eye of the others as she put the final item in the box.
Pitt, of similar age to Mrs Gregson, was relatively young for a major. He had been denied front line service because he had lost an eye, now replaced by a false one, in a polo accident; he was, by all accounts, still a useful player. He was a good head taller than Mrs Gregson and as she stepped out into the hall he stooped down to whisper in her ear. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’
‘Well . . .’ She glanced into the New Capture room, where the three women were apparently engrossed in creating their parcels. A giggle, though, escaped from within, followed by a very unladylike snort. ‘Possibly.’
‘I have some news,’ Pitt said, pushing home his slim advantage.
‘Really? About?’ Not the bloody Queen again, she thought.
‘About Major Watson.’
A suspicious cast clouded her features. ‘Good news?’
What kind of fool was he to bring glad tidings about a man he considered a rival for this woman’s affections? Not that Pitt had ever met this Watson, but he knew the man once boasted some minor celebrity, and that Mrs Gregson clearly bore him some affection. Some deep affection, he might add. However, he told himself for the hundredth time that Major Watson could only be a father figure to someone like Mrs Gregson. He himself was a far more suitable match. Some considered her too frisky and forthright, but, Pitt thought with her confident manner and red hair, she made all the other women look positively bland. And news of the old boy brought such palpable joy to her, that he could use the lift in her spirits to suggest a dinner before he travelled to The Hague.
‘Very good news, Mrs Gregson,’ he said, managing what he hoped was a shy smile. ‘Very good news indeed.’
Before he could say any more she had turned on her heel and left to fetch her hat and coat.