Eve had come up to London on the early-morning train. Yesterday, after Faludi, she had been passed on to David Hatton, a strange experience with the formality, and a clerk taking notes. His instructions to her had been that she go to London where outside the Science Museum there would be an unmarked bus. When all the new recruits were on board they would be driven to some recently acquired premises which would be used for induction training.
‘I am to work in an office then, sir?’
David Hatton had looked at her over the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses and smiled. ‘Did you expect you’d get your invisible ink and a morse-code ditter straight-away, Miss Anders?’
‘You’re making fun of me… sir, but I did expect that I would be sent for training or something.’
‘We are all at the training stage.’
From which she suspected that The Bureau might not yet have an up-and-running training plan.
‘The small group of people you will be working with, Miss Anders, are as new to The Bureau as yourself. Each one of you will have a differing task. Your own is to judge which, if any, of them would provide a risk to security.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any suggestions as to what you will look for?’ She’d been shocked at the idea of spying on her colleagues, but she’d answered, ‘Egotists, and egoists, gossips, blabbermouths, anybody whose drinking goes beyond sociability.’ She’d paused then, not looking at him because she was pondering; said, ‘I would keep my eyes and ears open for anything that didn’t quite add up, accents that don’t fit the picture.’
‘Yes, good, Miss Anders. Perhaps you could expand on that a little.’
‘Well, sir, supposing one of the group isn’t quite what they appear. They make little mistakes, nothing much, a hint that they might not be everything they present to the world… their past is questionable.’ She had not raised her eyes, but drawn her brows and held a finger to her lips as though she was still considering his question, waiting for his response. He’d remained silent. After long moments she’d slid her glance in his direction, but his eyes had not met hers as he concentrated on doodling what she’d at first taken to be hieroglyphs but then realised were notes. She had taught herself a little of the ‘Gregg’ version of shorthand, which was sinuous and flowing. His configurations were angular and minuscule.
‘I didn’t know you wrote Pitman, sir.’
He’d looked up and given her his old, devastating smile. ‘I do, Miss Anders. I have always been grateful that I was persuaded to take a few evening classes.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I interrupted.’
‘No, I think we have finished here. Any questions?’
‘Ah, yes, sir. May I ask whether we are all compiling reports on one another?’
‘I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say that each of you will have differing tasks. Interview over.’ He had pressed a button on his desktop and nodded to the clerk, who left the room.
Eve started to rise from her chair. ‘May I go now, sir?’
‘I’d like it if you stayed for a glass of something.’ Once the clerk had retreated, her immediate senior officer had become David again. ‘Though God knows what, Eve. Sherry? I’m sorry, but this office doesn’t run to much else. Gin, but no Indian. Camp coffee, tea without milk – and that’s about it.’
She’d hovered between wanting to stay but knowing she should go if she was to maintain the proper distance between them now that she would be working under him. But it was for him to be making that kind of rule, wasn’t it?
‘Is my response going to be written up in your Pitman notes?’
He’d got up, come over to her side of the desk and sat on its edge, his body keeping a formal distance, but the look in his eyes invading. ‘I said that the interview was over.’
His behaviour had been unforgivable in Spain. Their relationship went back a long way, with highs and lows, twists and turns. He had dug into her past at the time when they had first met and she had been like Cinderella at the ball, dancing till midnight and then disappearing.
When they’d met again and she had become Eve Anders, he couldn’t leave it and had gone on to uncover Lu Wilmott.
Now suddenly it had seemed childish to keep refreshing her pique every time she was with him. She’d returned his smile. ‘Thanks, David, I’ve had worse drinks than gin without.’
‘Good.’ He’d held up the bottle. ‘Beefeater?’
‘Looks good to me.’
The tots he’d poured had been sensible – generous but less than doubles. He’d touched glasses with her. ‘Here’s to a sparkling new career for you.’
‘Thank you… David. Am I to take it that I’m in your sector?’
‘Are you still Republican?’
‘Are you?’
He’d grinned. ‘I managed to swear an Oath of Allegiance.’
‘Then so could I.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
Raising his glass he’d said, ‘Here’s to George. May he be the last of the line. How will that do?’
Grinning, she’d said, ‘I’ll drink to that. Until that day, I promise I will do everything in my power to see that no fascist usurps him.’
‘Nicely said, Eve. You’ll make a bloody good and devious member of The Bureau.’
There had been a short silence, not awkward, as they’d accustomed themselves to the renewal of their relationship. Eve had idly followed the wire that led from the button on his desk to a black box showing a small red light. When she’d returned her attention to him, he’d been watching her. The interview had been recorded. She’d raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. It didn’t matter. What did she expect if she wanted to belong to this maverick branch of the Ministry of Information?
Rewarming their relationship had left them only the new Spain to talk about with any ease. He’d asked about the children, and what they looked like now they were recovering. She’d told him about the generosity of the Lavender family. The naked gin hadn’t gone to her head as she had expected, but she’d refused a second. He’d walked her to the door.
‘David? I do know the meanings of ‘different’ and ‘differing’.’
He’d turned off the recording machine. His smile had become a grin as he’d put his arm briefly about her shoulders and squeezed – gently, friendly. ‘That’s my girl.’
She’d stiffened at his familiarity.
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s one thing I’m not. I’m your junior officer. Different assignments mean just that, but differing… ? This group I’m assigned to – same task but differing because we will all have our own version of one another. Right?’
He’d given her an unsure smile.
‘Don’t ever try to do me a favour, David.’
The bus felt damp and smelled musty, the crisscrosses of blast paper over the windows made the interior dim. There were already a number of people waiting but nobody spoke more than a polite mumble. With the last recruit on board, the driver got in, the engine rumbled and they drew away. Destination unknown.
‘Hey, how are you?’ Eve took the firm hand directed at her. ‘Wilhelmina de Beers for the record, DB to my friends.’
‘I’m OK, thanks, DB. Eve Anders. You’re South African?’
‘Born and bred. You recognise the accent – how come?’
‘I’ve spent a couple of years in – working with people from the four corners of the earth.’
‘Go on, see if you can say which part. Cape? Jo-burg? Durban?’
Eve laughed, trying the young woman’s accent. ‘Hey, min, I’m not thet goowd. Oi say maybe Ifrikawna?’
DB laughed with delight. ‘Man, you’re good. Right, I’m a Boer but never a bore.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Yeah, well… I’ve been called worse, but only behind my back or they’d get a fist in the teeth.’ She laughed again, showing almost all her whiter-than-white teeth. ‘Not seriously… not in the teeth, hurts your knuckles. Maybe a fist in the gut. I’m quite proud of having Voortrekker blood. But, who’d ever know, it’s so mixed up with my trekker ancestors – the old trekkers got on pretty good with Zulus and Bushmen – Bushladies I should say – I guess that’s where I get this hair.’ She didn’t mention her skin colour, which was a beautiful, blooming café au lait.
DB removed the ski-cap from which sprang a mass of corkscrew curls shiny, black and memorable.
‘Have you a clue where we’re going?’ Eve asked.
‘Naw, I tried sweet-talking the driver, but he’s been issued with a lip-zip.’
‘I guess we will be too. Is Wilhelmina de Beers your real name?’
‘Hey, is Eve Anders yours?’
‘Touché. I just meant… you know… with de Beers being the diamond family…’
A young man’s face appeared round the side of the high-backed seat. ‘Hello there. Paul Smyth-with-a-Y, pronounced Smith – my family practises reverse snobbery.’ He had a wide, open grin. Standing in the aisle he shook hands briefly, then squatted to be at their level. ‘All in the same boat here. Sooner we get to know one another, the sooner we shall get to know one another… if you get my drift.’
He was of middle height, with a broad, kindly, open face, crisp brown hair, nice eyes with smile lines at the corners, straight mouth with a full lower lip. Not exactly nondescript, but the type that wouldn’t catch much attention in a crowd. Unlike attention-catching Wilhelmina with her jet-black corkscrew hair, and dark eyes set in a striking high-cheek-boned face.
Paul Smyth pointed a finger jokingly at Wilhelmina. ‘This lady is Miss de Beers all right. I’ll vouch for that. I’ve seen you perform, Miss de Beers. It was memorable.’
‘Really? Nice of you to say so. I never thought of any performance of mine as memorable.’
‘Come on, don’t be modest. You weren’t sitting where I was sitting. Honestly, Miss Anders, this lady’s got a voice like nobody you ever heard. Well, that’s not quite true. If you ever heard Billie Holiday, she’s a second Billie Holiday.’
‘Aw, if only that was true. She is so amazing. Have you heard her for real, Paul Smyth-with-a-Y?’
‘Oh, have I! I was there in Greenwich Village the night she first sang ‘Strange Fruit’.’
DB’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really! At the Café Society?’
‘My God, yes,’ Paul said. ‘Even thinking about it, the hairs on my neck rise. Wow! That song knocked us all sideways, didn’t it? I thought nobody was going to applaud, so I did…’
‘That was you? Man, you certainly whipped up a storm. It was super. I tell you, Eve, you had to be there to know what it was like.’
‘I wish I had been. I’m a real fan of hers, and Ella Fitzgerald’s.’
Paul made a gesture that said everything. ‘If you’re a fan of Ella and Billie, then you will be of DB. You followed Ella the night I first heard you sing.’
‘Oh yeahhhh.’ She faced out both palms and wiggled her fingers. ‘I sure was an acceptable nigra that night.’
These three appeared to be the only ones to have tried to get acquainted as the coach lurched through the disturbed streets of London. Along the entire route of the journey were gangs of men filling bags with sand and building them into buttresses against bomb-blast; digging out earth in open spaces to build underground bomb shelters; slow convoys of low-bed army lorries bringing anti-aircraft guns to the centre of London.
Eventually the coach came to a halt, and all heads were turned to the windows. A voice from the front of the bus said, ‘I say, what d’you think. They’ve brought us to the Scrubs.’
There was an apprehensive silence, then everyone scrambled to a window.
‘Good God!’
‘I say, driver, are you sure this is where you are supposed to be taking us?’
Not even bothering to turn round, the driver just nodded.
Wilhelmina de Beers kneeled in her seat and looked out. ‘What’s the Scrubs? Looks like poky to me.’
Paul Smyth answered, ‘You’re right, it is – has a reputation for being hard.’
The bus door opened, and a tough-looking man in army uniform came aboard and asked for names. ‘All present and correct, driver. You can go on through. Return to your seats, ladies and gentlemen. And before anybody asks, yes, this is Wormwood Scrubs Prison, and yes, this will be where you’ll be working for the next number of weeks. Make the best of it, ’cause let’s hope this is the last time you’ll find yourselves in jug. Leave your bags and cases on your seats, they will be delivered to your accommodation. Anybody not got tied-on labels? Good, good, you followed instructions… let’s keep it that way.’
Inside the dour building, where electric light was on but poor, the entire complement of ten were gathered and kept waiting for five or more minutes in a reception area where at one time, presumably, new inmates had checked in. DB, Paul and Eve stuck together.
‘Hey,’ DB said, ‘what a lark if they fit us out in uniforms with arrows!’
Eve, infected by her new-found colleague’s unwillingness to be sober, added, ‘And give us bags marked “Swag” to keep our possessions in.’
‘And hob-nailed boots,’ Paul added.
From somewhere behind them a woman’s voice said low, but clearly meant to be heard, ‘I don’t know about you, but I would say that merriment is inappropriate in the circumstances.’
Nobody appeared keen to agree.
DB said, ‘Somebody’s got a donder up her backside.’
Paul and Eve giggled with restraint, but it showed in their faces and drew them further into cahoots with DB.
‘What the hell’s a donder?’ Paul asked.
‘A Zulu staff of office – big stick with a ball on the end. You can donder your enemies with it.’ She demonstrated with a rolled-up newspaper, biffing Paul on the head.
‘Thank you kindly, miss. I’ll store that gem away for the day when I need a six-letter answer to my clue – “A Red nod for a twack.”’
Eve and DB looked at him sideways questioningly.
A young woman standing close by said, ‘That’s good… really. I’ve never met an anagrammatist as fast as you. Frances Haddon, known as Fran – glad to meet another addict.’ Her voice was a lot like Eve’s, low and gentle, her speech clear, good elocution. She touched hands briefly with the other three, who at once made room for her in their small circle.
DB asked, ‘Just what are we all on about here?’
Paul said, ‘Crossword puzzles, anagrams. Not a very good one.’
Frances Haddon remarked, ‘Off the top of your head like that? I’d say it was very good.’
Soon they were taken into the part of the Scrubs where they were to start the induction process. They were to work round the clock. Two shifts of three people and one of four. The groups were self-selecting, Eve, DB, Paul and Fran being one.
Overseeing the Scrubs ‘operation’ was a most attractive woman called Vee Dexter. A story did the rounds that she was waiting for confirmation of her appointment as personal assistant to Colonel Linder with whom it somehow became known she was having a love affair, Linder’s wife and children being safely tucked away in Suffolk.
Where such gossip started was impossible to decide. The problem was, true or not, gossip was valuable: it was from such sources that truth emerged, a picture built up. But ought such chit-chat in their midst be reported? The on-going problem was how much was planted. Eve decided to take note and leave decisions to the end of the induction.
Mary-Rose Toffler was another whom Eve found hard to place. She was an older woman in a shift group comprising an older man, Mel, and Stan, most likely Greek. On Saturday mornings when they all received lectures and talks, Mary-Rose always appeared to continue taking notes afterwards, and to intrude upon any little gathering. Maybe she was just socially inept, or overeager. Or maybe, like Eve, she wasn’t sure she was getting it – getting what was going on here. Eve wondered whether any of them did. What was important and what was dross?
Working in a building with permanently blacked-out windows, they found that the actual time of day was apparent only when they came off shift. They sorted paper, entered lists, filled requisition forms and were asked to redesign them for clarity.
Paul and Fran loved this work. Their mind sets were suited to dissecting a problem, looking at it and making something of it. Neither of them could understand others who didn’t think in that way. Paul defined it as being ‘those who could, and the rest’, meaning those who couldn’t do the Telegraph crossword puzzle before breakfast. Eve and DB were quite contented to work under such giant minds.
Vee came and went between the Scrubs and The Bureau offices in Baker Street, one of which was that of the chief, Linder, who would occasionally come into the Scrubs to look around, missing nothing.
The old prison was believed to be temporary accommodation for the recruits, but soon it appeared that The Bureau was settling in very well. All the bits of carpet in the world wouldn’t give any kind of comfort to their working place, but they were a cheerful bunch, enthusiastic at their acceptance into the War Office. Even the most curious of friends and families would be impressed to hear that they must not ask questions because it was ‘the War Office’. Hush-hush.
Knowing this gave the whole group a sense of their worth. Not that they could see much of it in the work that many of them found tedious. Where are the cloaks and daggers? they would jokingly ask over their beer glasses at weekends when they were free. Where is the invisible ink?
Often, on Sundays, all ten of them would just roam around. Nothing better than walking, they agreed, to get to know London. Then they tried the trams and trolley buses, and then the underground, and within a short time had learned the best and quickest routes, as well as the most interesting and picturesque destinations.
First-aid posts were being created in alleyways and church porches. Everywhere Londoners seemed to be practising: lowering ‘injured’ volunteers down ladders. On end walls yellow-painted letters ‘SWS’ indicated where water could be had if the mains were blown up. Along the platforms of some of the main underground stations, wooden bunk-bed frames were being erected. Fire engines without warning bells tried out narrow side streets for use in emergencies.
Some Sundays the Bureau recruits caught a sombre mood as they saw Londoners battening down the hatches in preparation for the inevitable. The weeks since Eve came back to England had been dubbed ‘the phoney war’ because of all the restrictions and preparations that seemed so much fruitless labour when both day and night the skies were quiet.
People grumbled, but nobody gave up.
The Bureau trainees gained more information from their evenings in the pubs than from reading newspapers, none of which said anything about London children returning home from the safety of the country.
‘My gel Alice went and got her kids back. They was more scared of all the bloody cows and horses than the chance of a bomb.’
‘Our young Nobby said it put the frit up him. “It’s all empty, Grandpa,” he said. “Ain’t nothing there except empty fields.” He’s right. What do you reckon they do with theirselves… all that empty space with nobody there?’
‘Only time we ever saw the country was hop-pickin’. You wouldn’t get me living there. Same with me, their nan went down Sussex way to see the little’ns. They wanted to come home with her. She told them, people pays good money to have holidays, go camping and that in the fields. My son says they should come back.’
‘Schools is all closed.’
‘If enough comes home, they’ll have to open up again.’
Considering none of them had met before they arrived at the Scrubs the recruits got on well – friendly, easy to talk to and eagerly listened to; ordinary, likeable people of whom Eve guessed she must be the youngest. All were as earnest as herself to make good, to be accepted to go on to the next stage of training. She paid attention and watched the ways other than in words they expressed themselves. It was rather like her journalist experience all over again. For a while, whilst she was in Spain, she had written some columns for some of the more liberal journals about ordinary lives, trying to give readers more than a report; people in their variety and with all their quirkiness was what she tried to give.
Sometimes Eve and DB went around together, roaming the London stores which Paul and Frances Haddon found boring, leaving those two talking maths too advanced for Eve and DB to comprehend. Other times they went out as a foursome.
Occasionally they were allowed a day off in the week and decided to have breakfast at the Lyons Corner House at Marble Arch, which still served decent food, and this simple fun together affirmed their friendship.
DB was always entertaining – ‘good sport’, she called it. ‘I’ll tell you what would be good sport. Let’s all go to Joe Lyons at Marble Arch, go in disguise, and see how long it takes to find one another.’
Eve went for simplicity. She got Vee to find her an old mac and hat, and wore her own shoes muddied up a bit, then queued for a cup of tea and a bun in the basement brasserie. By midday, the appointed time, she had detected none of the others. Then she saw how people were looking up, but, as the English do, trying not to watch as Paul, with a greasepaint Groucho Marx moustache, and copying the famous bent-kneed walk, carried a cup and plate to her corner and sat at her table.
A waitress put some coins by his plate. ‘You forgot your change, sir.’
‘Thanks, Fran.’
‘Oh, damn you, Paul, I went to such lengths to get them to let me do this.’
‘How about me?’
‘Oh, you were good, Eve. If I hadn’t bribed Vee to tell me about the old mac and hat, I think I’d have taken ages to get you.’
Fran went off to the manageress’s office to return her borrowed uniform.
‘DB’s the winner. Let’s join forces and find her.’
But although they went to every floor of the Lyons Corner House they couldn’t.
‘Come on then,’ Fran said, ‘let’s go buy her a trophy. I saw a lipstick chap on my way here.’
Even this early in the war, everyday things were becoming unavailable in shops. Small-time street-traders appeared from nowhere with little cases containing unobtainable objects of desire, selling at speed until crowds gathered and policemen approached, when the traders would vanish.
‘Vi’lets, dearie, lovely sweet vi’lets.’ Although she was disguised by only a shapeless hat and shoulder blanket tied across her bosom, a truly unrecognisable DB thrust posies at them. ‘This is my friend, Kath, who has let me stand with her all morning. You’re a sweetie, Kath.’
‘Don’t you want your flowers, dear?’
‘Naw, you just sell’m again.’
With Paul still wearing his Groucho moustache, they went off down Oxford Street. ‘You cheated, DB.’
‘Of course I cheated. What did you all expect? We’re Bureau people, I thought we would all cheat.’ She thumped Paul playfully on the arm. ‘As for you, you silly bugger…’
They had become a foursome – unlike the other six, who hadn’t been able to find the trick of working as a team in the same way.
On the last Saturday of the course, after yet another lecture about surveillance, Vee congratulated them all and said that although Colonel Linder couldn’t be with them, he had arranged with the landlord of The Star and Garter to have a round of shorts on him.
The shorts turned out to be generous doubles of whisky. The Scrubs contingent drank and played darts noisily against the locals until closing time. The landlord had no idea what these rowdies were doing at the old prison – although he told his regulars, in confidence, that they were doing emergency planning. He was shrewd enough to guess that they might not be the last, so he put up with their loud voices because they didn’t seem short of money.
Afterwards, the Bureau recruits went back to the Scrubs to take a look at the telephone exchange that was now installed. They felt pleased that the place they had worked on finally looked important and complete. The ten gathered in the kitchen, which contained only an electric kettle and a tiny electric oven with two rings. They stood around, sharing the few bottles of stout and beer they had persuaded the landlord to part with, drinking from their coffee mugs.
Mary-Rose, now rosy-cheeked to suit her name, stepped out of character and raised her voice. ‘Listen a minute. I know I’ve had too much to drink, but I want to say something before I get any squiffier. All my life I have been a solitary and studious person. I shunned social contact, believing myself to be self-sufficient with my books and studies, but here, with all of you, for the first time, I have learned what it is like to live and work close to people. I expect it’s gone to my head, but I want to tell you before we all go our separate ways that I would never do or say anything against any of you. I have found you all to be good and nice people and I was brought up never to say anything behind a person’s back that I would not say to their face.’ She bowed her head shyly. ‘That’s all. Could I beg a cigarette?’ Offers came from all round the table.
Mel, the most senior of the men in terms of age – probably in his early forties – squeezed Mary-Rose’s hand. ‘That’s really sweet, Mary-Rose. We’ve all enjoyed ourselves, haven’t we, gang?’ They clinked their mugs and agreed. Eve guessed that ‘gang’ wasn’t a word he would have used in his past life. There were little things about each of the others that didn’t ring true.
Maybe they felt as she had done when she had cut herself loose from home, joined the Communists and gone to Spain – they were experiencing an entirely different game; an entirely new set of rules; a strange kind of freedom.
Mary-Rose looked at each of them very seriously. ‘I don’t just mean enjoy, I mean… you have become more to me than… well, pals. Mel, would you do the honours?’ She took a bottle from her shoulder-bag. ‘It’s good stuff… the best.’
Mel held up the bottle. ‘And you’re not kidding there, Mary-Rose.’
They drank well into the early hours, then dispersed when Mel said, ‘Well, gang, I’m off, got things to do, places to visit.’ There were no goodbyes, no references to when they might see one another again.
Paul, DB, Eve and Fran came out into a gloomy, foggy, London, and started to walk in the direction of their digs.
Fran said, ‘Blow this for a lark, I’m not ready for bed.’
‘Me neither,’ said Eve.
‘Good,’ said Fran. ‘You want to know what I think?’
‘Yeah, we deserve a treat.’
‘I absolutely agree,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll stand one if anybody knows where to go. No pubs open. How about Joe Lyons? What time do they open, Eve?’
‘Not for a couple of hours yet.’
Paul shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s my entire knowledge of London high life. No use asking the lad from the sticks.’ He often referred to himself like this, but if he was once a country boy, it had been some time ago. Eve thought he might be an army man.
‘Come on,’ Fran said, ‘I know where. Top secret, no questions asked.’ And, guided by her, they walked through backstreets, ending up at an all-night cabbie stand from which came an enticing aroma of tea stewing and bread frying in lard.
‘Oh my God,’ Paul, always ready to eat, said, sniffing the air. ‘We’ve died and come to Heaven.’
The prospect of food made them feel hungrier and even more cheerful, and their long walk had dispelled tiredness and cleared their heads.
The stand, sheltered by a tarpaulin and lit only by an oil lamp, was underneath arches. A few London cabs without lights were parked close by. The only places to rest were a couple of benches made of empty drums and scaffolding planks. Cabbies, after stretching their legs, warmed their hands on steaming mugs, leaned against Thames Embankment wall, and sorted out the war strategy and a government who didn’t know nothing. Trains rattled overhead. Fran said to the other three, ‘Sit you down, this is my shout,’ and went straight to the stand. ‘Four sweet teas, Herb, and eight well-done slices.’
The vendor peered. ‘Lor love us, miss, it’s you. Where you been keeping yourself?’
‘Here and there, coming and going… war work, Herb.’
‘Aw, miss, don’t say that. Don’t say you ain’t going to give your loving public no more—’
Fran interrupted, ‘Now, then, Herb, you know better than to ask. Walls have ears. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘So they keep saying when I try to get a bit of extra sugar. Sweet tea’s total necessary to my blokes – keeps ’m going. And not just cabbies. Now there’s the wardens and ambulance girls as well as the night-shift safety gangs off the lines.’ He pointed to above the arches where trains clattered and rattled over points. ‘But will the Min’stry a’ Food listen? Will they buggery.’
When Fran returned to the others, carrying a tin tray holding four large mugs and a pile of thick, fried bread, their expressions were eager and curious.
‘Don’t ask! Or you’ll get none of this. I mean it.’
‘Fair enough,’ Paul said as they fell upon the bread, murmuring and groaning with pleasure as they bit into the crisp, lardy outer layer and munched the soft, steaming centre. ‘We won’t even ask how you come to know this amazing place and what it is Herb thinks he’s not going to get any more of.’
DB whispered, mock conspiratorial, ‘Maybe it’s one of Lieutenant Hatton’s tasks.’
Eve agreed. ‘It just might be – do you think this is what it might be like if it was a real operation?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Paul answered lightly. ‘Herb just passed Fran a secret message, under cover of fried bread.’
DB slapped Paul on the back, making him splutter into his mug of tea. ‘Oh my God, Paul! You just swallowed the message.’ Everything they said made them laugh like schoolkids.
Herb leaned out of the serving hatch and said genially, ‘Oi, miss, watch it, or I’ll have to give you the old heave-ho for lowering the tone of my establishment.’
Paul said, ‘DB, give Herb’s place a bit of style… sing.’
‘OK. What?’
‘“Strange Fruit”, DB. It has to be. Give Eve and Fran something to remember.’
‘And leave them crying?’
Paul put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Hey, lady, you sing da blues, sure we gonna cry.’
DB sang, stopping Herb’s customers in their tracks.
When daylight came and Herb had rinsed his last mug, the four hired one of the cabs which took them back to pack their bags.
After she had packed her things, Eve sat down to write her report, which was quite long because there was much she thought worth mentioning, though not in detail. She ended: ‘It is my opinion that Toffler is already working within The Bureau and was a plant to induce reactions from us on our last day, as was the rumour that there was a clandestine relationship between the Chief and his assistant. E. Anders. 25 February 1940.’ Then, just as they had parted from the others, the four walked away from one another. There were no goodbyes and they did not look back.