Simon
Spiteful Talk
‘He should never be allowed in uniform. It’s a disgrace!’
‘Oh, shut up, Kitty. Simon’s the best code-breaker we have. We wouldn’t crack half of the codes without him. Besides . . .’
Simon tried to step back and go out of the door again without being seen. He’d heard the comment and felt the pain of it, but Jane Downing, a decent sort, had spotted him and stopped in her tracks while defending him, embarrassment burning her cheeks. He smiled at her as he walked through the corridor and within sight of the dozen or so women in Hut 6, the hub of operations at Bletchley Park, where the Enigma messages from the Germans’ army and air force were decrypted. Some of the women looked up at him, but most dropped their heads and looked busy. Simon decided to make light of the situation and try and make them giggle.
‘Girlies – darlings – who are we gossiping about today? Do tell!’ A ripple of nervous laughter gave him a feeling of relief. He was sure he’d managed to make them think he didn’t know it was him they had been discussing. Turning towards his own office, a small room at the top end of the hut, he hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but Kitty had other ideas.
‘We were talking about you, actually. Your kind are not fit to wear His Majesty’s uniform!’
Not wanting this to deteriorate into a slanging match, Simon decided to pull rank. ‘Please address me as “sir” or “Officer Fulworth” when you speak to me, Wren Hamlin. And please refrain from speaking about me to others.’
‘Huh, you have to earn respect. It’s not—’
‘Kitty!’
Her name, spoken in a warning tone by Jane, did nothing to stop Kitty Hamlin from voicing her hurtful remarks. ‘Well, everyone knows what he is . . .’
Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Simon asked, ‘Oh? And what are you, Wren Hamlin? Wasn’t that my colleague, the married officer John Perry, I saw you with last night? Giving you a good humping against the wall, wasn’t he, darling? Screaming like a stuck pig, you were, and I wasn’t the only one to see or hear you.’ Wanting to bite his tongue out, he turned away.
The moment’s silence that followed his remark was broken by a yell that would have made a fishwife proud. ‘What? What are you talking about! I was out with my mum last night – she came to visit me, didn’t she, Jane?’
‘Yes, she did, and I did see you go out with her.’
This was just what he’d wanted to avoid: getting the girls on the side of Kitty Hamlin; especially Jane, who had tried to stand up for him.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he marched towards his office, but the giggles and the whispered word ‘Faggot’ undid him. Once he was in his office, tears filled his eyes.
Leaning against the door, Simon gave rein to them for a moment, allowing them to run freely down his cheeks. Their salty taste had him wiping his eyes. What’s the use? Oh, Roland – Roland, if only we could run off somewhere. To a mountain hideaway in a hot country and live in peace.
Thinking of his visit at the weekend to Roland, the love of his life, Simon pulled out his wallet and took out the photo he carried of him. Kissing it made him feel better and quelled the fear that always clogged his chest when people referred to his homosexuality. No matter what his rank, or his standing here at Bletchley Park, if he was proven to be in a relationship with another man he would go to prison. And so would Roland. It was the main reason for them living so far apart. No one knew him, when he visited Roland. To all intents and purposes, he was just a friend from school days and, in public, they always had Lucinda in tow. And no one knew Roland in London, where Simon had an apartment in the house that his mother had made over to Lucinda and him. They had converted it into two dwellings; Lucinda occupied the five rooms upstairs, while he had the bottom half. It was an arrangement that worked well.
Unlike the North, where Roland lived, people in London didn’t take much notice of each other’s comings and goings, which made it easier for them to enjoy more private times together, going out to dinner or to the theatre. Precious, snatched time that Simon dreaded this war would take away from them. The recent news of the conscription age-limit being raised had worried him, although, at forty-three years old, Roland had just missed being called up. Nevertheless, there had been talk of that limit being raised again in the future. Oh, God, I couldn’t bear it!
With his head reeling from a particularly difficult code that it had taken him hours to come up with a formula for, only to find it wasn’t correct, Simon bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. His back ached from standing, jotting down equations on the huge board that occupied one wall of his office.
A legacy of his childhood, his back pain wasn’t helped by being a tall man. Six foot two in his stockinged feet, he towered above most people he knew. His back had been injured at the age of twelve, when he’d been a boarder at Rugby school. On one of his visits to the town centre, a gang of boys had set upon him. They had called him a ‘nancy boy’ and had beaten him up. When they’d finished with him they threw him down the embankment of the railway line and that had resulted in one of his discs being ruptured. His back had been weak ever since.
Straightening himself some time later, he realized it was already dark outside. God, what time is it? A glance at his watch told him it was almost nine-thirty. He hadn’t been out of his office since the incident that afternoon, or had a cup of tea or anything to eat. A sudden pang of hunger and thirst seized him. He’d go to the bar for a drink and then call at the canteen and bring something back, so that he could continue working. He didn’t feel like company, and knocking off wasn’t an option. He had to break this code!
Using the window as a mirror, he tidied himself up. Flattening his hair as best he could, he donned his jacket. As he fastened his belt, he examined his face. What was it about him that gave away what he was? His full, effeminate lips didn’t help. Or his soft blue eyes, framed by long, dark lashes. Or his high cheekbones or his over-smooth skin. He hardly ever had to shave, and when he did it was only to scrape away what would be termed bum-fluff. He had to admit he was the epitome of a pretty boy. Even his slim figure and delicate bone structure had something of the female form about them, though they belied his strength. When he stripped, his torso was strong and muscular. He had great stamina and was athletic. His saving grace at school had been his running ability. He’d brought the championship cup home for the school three years on the trot, and had been in line to be part of the Olympic team. But he’d been sidelined and had always suspected that the rumours about his sexuality were the reason why.
Giving a sigh that released some of the tension his thoughts had brought about, Simon put it all out of his mind. Outside, the late-evening air had a crisp feel to it. Breathing in deeply, he walked towards Bletchley House and the room that had been converted to offer a comfortable area, much like a gentlemen’s club, for the officers to relax in.
The usual babble of voices hushed as he walked in. Sensing an atmosphere, his heart thudded against his chest. Looking around, he asked, ‘Anything wrong?’
Someone coughed, and a voice from one group said, ‘Only that a faggot has walked into the room.’
‘Oh, not that old hat. Just found out what one is, have you, Jones? Being one is nearly as bad as being a sheep-shagger—’
‘Why, you . . .’
‘Now then, that’s enough. I reckon as you deserved that, Davy. As for the rest of you, if any of you want to stoop to name-calling, like a lot of schoolboys, then do it when I am not around. Come and sit over here, Officer Fulworth, you look like you could do with a cup of tea.’
Grateful for the general’s intervention, Simon went over to the table in the far corner of the room where he sat partaking of a glass of wine. He felt relieved that, as he did so, the others began to chat to each other again and the atmosphere eased. ‘Thank you, sir, but I thought to take some refreshment back to my office. I’ve a particularly sticky problem that I cannot get to the bottom of.’
‘Have a break, old chap. All work and no play . . .’ A puff of smoke from the general’s pipe produced a pleasant smell of Old Holborn tobacco. Where the general got his supply from, no one knew or questioned, but the aroma aroused a yearning in Simon to have a smoke himself – something he’d been trying to give up, after finding he was getting more and more out of breath on his morning run. Out of habit, he patted his pockets, even though he knew he didn’t have any cigarettes on him.
‘Want one of these, Fulworth?’
The voice surprised and alarmed Simon, but he nodded and took a cigarette from the packet that John Perry offered. Perry’s eyes locked on his with a steel-cold look that held a warning. Confused, Simon looked away. A heat crept up his neck and flooded his face. Fear tickled his stomach muscles. The click of Perry’s lighter made him jump. The flame from it danced menacingly in front of him. There was no doubt that Perry knew what had happened between him and Kitty that morning. Damn!
‘Sit down, Fulworth. You’re shaking like a leaf. You’re working too hard, man.’ This, from the general, broke the frightening spell that held Simon. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs calmed him. He nodded his thanks and sat down, grateful to be off legs that he didn’t think would hold him up much longer.
‘Are you experiencing any problems with the rest of the men, Simon?’
‘N-no, sir. No, everything’s fine.’
‘Good. Let me know if you do. We don’t want you upset, for we need you to concentrate. Oh, I hear things, but you never give any hint that they are true and your behaviour is impeccable. I rather like to think these rumours are because of a certain look you have, and I hope they are unfounded. You have a girlfriend, I believe?’
Hating having to lie to this man he so admired, Simon nodded. Then he made a joke to cover his discomfort. ‘Sort of, but we hardly ever see each other; maybe that’s as well, though, as she’s a fiery lady and this way we remain friends.’
‘Ha, I know what you mean. Absence may make the heart fonder, but it helps to keep the peace, too. You must miss her, though. Where does she live?’
Wanting to talk about anything but this, Simon shifted in his seat. Passing his half-sister off as his girlfriend didn’t sit well with him. But needs must, and luckily Lucinda wasn’t known to any of his set, as she had been brought up by their mother in India.
A couple of years after his father’s death, his mother had remarried and Lucinda had come along within the first year of the marriage. Simon had been ten at the time and already in boarding school. His grandfather had taken it upon himself to bring him up. Simon shuddered, as memory reminded him of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of this man who should have loved him.
‘Are you all right, man? You seem very distracted.’
‘I am, sir, sorry – always like this when I have a problem on my hands. Forgive me, you were asking about my sis . . . girlfriend. Lucinda lives in London, so not far away. She’s a journalist. Harbours an ambition to become a war correspondent, but I try to persuade her against it. Seems very dangerous work to me.’
‘You were going to say “sister”? Have you a sister or any family, Fulworth?’
‘I – I, yes, a younger sister; she lives with my mother in India.’ Oh, how the lies mount up. ‘She’s a half-sister. I haven’t seen her for years. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, hence my mistake. Look, there’s something I want to talk to you about, sir.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s about the meeting we had concerning an assistant for me. I have someone in mind. She’s a northern girl from the lower classes, but she’s had the benefit of a good education and excels in maths.’
‘Not our usual type, then. How do you know her?’
‘Through a friend. He and I were at university together. He runs evening classes in Leeds, where he lives. Poverty is rife there and although, as I said, the girl is from the lower classes, she had a benefactor who paid for her lessons. She excelled in everything, but in maths in particular. She passed her exams with very high marks. Apparently she was hoping to go to university to become a teacher, but the gentleman who has sponsored her thus far has run short of funds. In any case, it is thought that she’d stand little chance of getting a place. Not that she doesn’t deserve one, but . . . well, you know. Keeping the lower classes down and all that. My friend recommends her highly. Of course he doesn’t know what my work is, but he does know that I’m looking out for a good candidate to assist me.’
‘Hmm, I’d like to see her. Turing and Welchman are already beginning to murmur that we will have to break ranks at some point and recruit from the lower classes. We are very short-handed and are running out of what have always been considered “suitable people” to draw new candidates from. Problem is, we simply don’t have the budget to employ the number of hands we need. It’s my guess that Welchman, in particular, will eventually cause a ruction and force the government’s hand. If your girl fits in and does a good job, she will prove that there is a bigger pool for us to fish in. Approach her, and I will put a panel together. We’ll interview her, but no promises.’
‘Thank you, sir. I was introduced to her in person last weekend. My fiancée and I went to stay with my friend and he invited her to dinner. I liked her very much. I took note of her good points, and they were many. I also found out as much about her as I could, by asking questions without being impolite. You know the kind of thing: what her interests are, does she have a boyfriend, what does she think of the war? I wanted to get a true picture of her. She came up trumps in everything. And she astounded me by solving the very difficult equation I set her. She knows that I am recommending her, but not what for, of course, and yet she is very keen to join us. I asked her to solve the equation to satisfy myself of her ability and, as I think my friend is more than taken with her, to make sure his judgement isn’t clouded by his feelings for her.’ Simon sighed; always he needed to draw the scent away from what having a male friend might conjure up in others’ minds. ‘Anyway, she amazed me. She came up with the right answer in just a few minutes. A very clever and nice, level-headed young woman.’
‘In that case, we’ll do this quicker than usual. Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll sort out a date to interview her and you can telephone your friend to arrange it. I’ll have the train passes ready, so that you can send them to . . . What’s her name, by the way?’
‘Florence Kilgallon, sir.’
‘Irish? Southern or northern?’
‘Neither. Her parents were from Ireland, but she wasn’t sure from which part and displayed no allegiance to the country whatsoever.’
‘We’ll have to make sure on that. The southerners are not with us in this war, as you know.’
‘Right-o, sir, but I don’t think there will be a problem. She can’t even remember her parents, and is a northern girl through and through.’
‘Well, let’s get the ball rolling and we will see.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now I beg your pardon, but I really would like to get back to my office. Would you excuse me? I’ll just get a sandwich from the mess to take back with me.’
‘Yes, of course. Do you think you will crack this one? It is vital, you know. They are using this code more and more, of late. Very important that we get a tag on it.’
‘Will do, sir. I’m nearly there, as it is. A bit of burning the midnight oil should do it.’ Stubbing out his cigarette, Simon stood, saluted and made his way to the bar. Upset with himself for doing so, he bought a packet of Senior Service cigarettes. He really had intended to stick to his resolve to give up.
Perry stood near the door. Trepidation clutched at Simon’s stomach muscles as he walked towards him. On reaching the exit, Perry moved forward, barring his path. ‘Been talking about things you shouldn’t, I hear, Fulworth. Well, I’d be careful if I was you. Walls have ears, they say. And if my little bit of fun with Kitty gets out, trouble will come looking for you. Trouble with a capital T.’
‘Get out of my way, Perry. I’m not afraid of you. If you want to mess with that whore, it’s your business; but if she continues to snipe at me, then you had better warn her, because I will put her on report, and your sordid dealings with her will likely come to light.’
‘You disgusting faggot! I’m watching you. One whiff of you getting it off with another man and you’ll find yourself in prison. And good riddance.’
His trepidation turned to sick fear. Pushing past Perry, Simon just made it outside before he vomited in the bushes. The retching caused the pain in his back to reignite and made him unsteady on his legs. When he got back to his office, he remembered he hadn’t bought a sandwich. Not that he could have eaten it now. God, how did things get as bad as this?
His colleagues had been fine with him until recently and he’d always had their respect. Now he was the subject of snide remarks, sniggering name-calling and subtle bullying. What had changed? He knew the answer: Kitty Hamlin.
Kitty came from a family in Essex who weren’t born into moneyed society, but had made their way by means of her father becoming a rich industrialist. A trained tailor, he’d started a small factory turning out mass-produced clothing for men. The last war had done him a huge favour and his business had mushroomed, as he’d secured the contract for supplying the forces with uniforms. Kitty had attended a private school and turned out to be university material, though somehow the rough edges of her parents’ beginnings had never been smoothed out. She was a nasty piece of work, and had swiftly made up her mind about Simon and made no bones about letting her conclusion be known. Before she came into his life, everyone had accepted his story of having a girlfriend, and that had been that. Now they questioned its validity. What was it with Kitty? Why was she so bothered by him? How he wished Roland was here. To be able to hold him and be held by him.
Loneliness threatened to suffocate Simon. But shaking off the feeling, he set about tackling the code once more and soon lost himself in the fascination of the equations he needed to solve, and in the thought that coming up with a formula would provide information that might be instrumental in saving many lives.
It had turned midnight before that happened and he was able to pass on his solution to the main office. He hoped, with all his heart, that the formula would enable the deciphering of the latest batch of intercepted messages.
As he rode his bicycle through the gates of Bletchley Park, dampness cloyed at Simon and chilled his body. The recent warm weather had given way to heavy night-dews. Pulling up the collar of his trench coat gave a little comfort.
Billeted with a local woman who lived about fifteen minutes’ ride away, Simon relished the exercise that the journey gave him and looked on this time as a chance to unwind. But tonight the usual sounds – a hooting owl, the flap of a swooping bat, the scream of a small animal as it became a meal for a larger predator, and the wind swishing through the branches – gave a sinister feel to the air.
A rustle behind the hedge, which he couldn’t put down to night-creatures, set his heart drumming in his ears. The words ‘Right, it’s him. Get him!’ hardly registered, before three figures jumped out in front of him. His attempt to swerve around them caused him to lose his balance. His body hit the ground, and the bike landed on top of him. Hands grabbed at the frame, jarring Simon’s trapped ankle. A cry of pain escaped him, but was obliterated by fear as a shadow that he could only attribute to a giant bent over him. Sour, alcohol-fuelled breath wafted into his open mouth, making him retch. The man’s fist crashed into his face, disorientating him. What’s happening? He tried to call out, but blood filled his mouth and something hard caught in his throat. Choking, he spat out the offending object just as a vicious kick sank into his groin, taking him into a sickening cascade of pain.
‘Give it to him – go on, you said you would!’
Through the wave upon wave of searing agony that gripped his groin and zinged through his body, the realization came to him that they were pulling his trousers down. Unable to struggle, he prayed: Please God, no. Please don’t let this happen.
A shout drowned out his pitiful plea. ‘Oi, what’s going on there?’
His attackers disappeared. Torchlight illuminated him. Shame smothered him. Oh God, let me die!
The voice of the torch-bearer held disgust. ‘Good God! What’s all this then? Men, doing this to you? Were you willing?’
He couldn’t answer. How could anyone think him party to what had just happened?
When the light left his face, he could make out the uniform of the man and saw it was a policeman.
‘Right, I think some questions will have to be answered. This isn’t a good position to be found in. You’re under arrest . . .’
‘No, Officer, please! Th-those men, th-they jumped me. They kicked me and then sought to humiliate me.’
The pain from the kick began to subside, but the humiliation was just as hard to bear.
Without touching him, or offering a word of comfort, the policeman said, ‘Get up and make yourself decent, man.’ The tone of his voice still spoke of his distaste. ‘I saw the others running off. Did you know them?’
Simon’s body trembled all over with the effort it took to stand. As he bent to pull up his trousers, his stomach rolled over. Dashing to the verge, he vomited on the grass. This involuntary action deepened his shame.
‘You’re in uniform! Bloody disgrace.’
Simon cringed. But what the officer said next gladdened him. ‘How dare they attack one of our serving officers? I’m sorry for my initial assumption, sir, but if you could see your way to coming to the police station, I would like to take a statement. Then I and my men will do our utmost to find out who they were.’
‘Thank you, Officer. Thank you. But I’ve had a very long day. What they did to me has left me in a lot of pain. I need to get home. All I can tell you is that I think they were local. Farmers, or something like that. They smelt as if they had been putting in a hard day’s labour and had then drowned it in beer. And they spoke with a local accent. I can think of no reason why they should attack me.’
‘Right-o. I’ve an idea who it might be, from what you say. There aren’t many young men left around here after the call-up, but farmers are exempt and I know three farm labourers who would fit the bill. But call in at the station tomorrow. If you remember anything in the meantime, jot it down. Now, let me just take your name and where you are staying.’
Wanting to get away and disappear into his own misery, this was an irritation to Simon, but he obliged. It did hearten him that the officer’s whole attitude seemed to have changed.
‘Now, sir, will you be all right getting home on your bike?’
Simon felt as if he would never be able to ride a bike again, but he so wanted to be alone. ‘I’ll make my way back into the Park and rouse one of the drivers. They’ll take me home. I’ll be fine, thank you.’
Wary of every little noise coming from the trees that lined his way, Simon somehow made it back inside Bletchley Park.
With familiar buildings around him, he felt safe again, but couldn’t contain his emotions. Sitting on the grass outside the front of Bletchley House, he felt tentatively inside his mouth. A gap that wasn’t there previously told him that one of his front teeth had gone. Being proud of his smile, this devastated him. He pulled up his knees, leaned on them and rested his head. Huge sobs racked his body. As these subsided, he thought again of Roland, and longing coursed through him to be with him up in the North, in his hideous house, and to be loved and comforted by him. This thought led to Flo coming into his mind. Somehow he felt he had a friend in her. He hoped with all his heart that she would pass the interview. Life wouldn’t be so lonely with the jolly Flo by his side.