The announcer’s voice was all too familiar to the monitors of late-night Radio Bremen. His tone was, as a rule, smug and scoffing, which no doubt added credibility to the script if you happened to be German. Tonight, however, there was an added element in the mixture of rant, cant and threat that the Nazi propaganda machine churned out.
Shaking off fatigue, Kate made careful note of it and, for the benefit of editorial, underlined one tell-tale statement: ‘It is a question of time – a few short weeks, then this conflagration will have reached its natural conclusion.’
Danny didn’t miss the trick. He passed the transcription down the table to Mr Harrison, his supervisor, who scanned the notes and looked up, frowning.
‘And the natural conclusion is?’ he asked.
‘Invasion,’ Danny answered.
‘Who marked it, Danny, you, or Miss …’
‘Cottrell,’ Danny said. ‘She marked it.’
‘Well, it isn’t much.’ Mr Harrison stroked his nose with the stem of his pipe. ‘But it is something. I take it you have the entire Bremen transcription?’
‘I do, sir,’ said Danny. ‘Kate – Miss Cottrell – was right tae mark it up. Somehow it doesn’t fit the context, an’ there might have been somethin’ in the way Fritz said it. She’s done Bremen every night for weeks an’ understands the inflexions.’
‘Point taken,’ Mr Harrison interrupted. ‘Does anyone have anything that might back it up?’
Heads rose from the papers that littered the editorial table but no one had anything to contribute. They were all aware that every scrap of information that might hint at Hitler’s plans to invade before winter was vital and not even the most casual-seeming comment could be discounted.
‘How far behind are we?’ Mr Harrison said.
‘Forty minutes at most,’ Griff said. He was seated directly across the long table from Danny and, at the mention of Kate’s name, had looked up. ‘Fritz goes off air at ten thirty.’
‘Have we heard anything from the fat Field Marshall this evening?’ said Mr Harrison. ‘Goering, I mean.’
A general shaking of heads.
Mr Harrison puffed on his pipe for ten or fifteen seconds then said, ‘All right. We’ll headline it. But first, Danny, pop over to M Unit and ask Miss Cottrell for her interpretation.’
‘Kate’s our best translator,’ Griff reminded him.
‘Spoken without prejudice, of course, Mr Griffiths,’ said Mr Harrison with a smile, and signalled Danny to be on his way.
Danny darted between the huts, identified himself to the soldier on duty and, careful to show no light, slipped into the monitoring unit. After checking in with Mr Gregory, he tiptoed down the aisle between the cubicles, each one lit by a little cup-shaped lamp. He drew up short of Kate’s desk. Even with a pair of earphones clamped on her head, she looked lovely. At that moment, for only a moment, he felt as if his life were drifting away from him.
He dropped the slip of paper on to her desk and asked, ‘What does it mean?’
‘Just what it says,’ Kate answered.
‘How did Fritz sound when he said it? Did he sound as if he knew something he couldn’t let dab about?’
‘Let dab?’
‘Divulge.’
She angled her chair to face him. He could make out the shape of her breasts under the white blouse and regret was suddenly tinged with longing.
‘Yes,’ Kate said, after a pause. ‘There was definitely something fishy in his delivery. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. He sounded – what? – sly when he talked about a natural conclusion.’
‘Natural, not inevitable? You’re sure?’
‘Oh, yes, there’s no confusion in German.’
‘A few short weeks?’
‘Exactly what Fritz said, word for word.’
‘Harrison wants to know if we should headline it?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ Kate said. ‘If you don’t trust my translation why don’t you give the wax to someone else and see what they make of it?’
‘We don’t have time,’ Danny said. ‘Make a snap judgement, Kate. You’re pretty damned good at that.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do we go with it, or not?’
‘Yes, go with it.’
‘You sure?’
‘Danny, what do you want from me?’
‘A straight answer.’
‘I’ve given you my answer.’
‘An’ you’re not going to change your mind?’
‘No, Danny,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’
Crafty Basil Willets had secured himself a berth in the lovely old studio dedicated to religious broadcasts. He looked rested, well groomed and smelled of after-shave. He obviously hadn’t had to fight for space at a sink or keep a wary eye open for Matron who was stalking the ladies’ cloakrooms to ensure that the latest memo prohibiting the washing of hair in hand basins was strictly obeyed.
There had been precious little ‘Dunkirk spirit’ in evidence in the canteen early that Monday morning. Even chirpy young typists had had the pith knocked out of them by the second night-long raid. There had been angry spats over the breakfast tables, tearful apologies and, here and there, smothered fits of near hysterics that even the appearance of Leslie Howard, the film actor, looking slightly less than heart-throb material in a borrowed greatcoat and carpet slippers, had failed to quell.
It was after eight o’clock before Basil showed up.
Susan had been at her desk for almost an hour trying to make sense of a schedule that had been revised to death and cope with telephone exchanges that had been bombed to blazes. Basil’s trim appearance made her feel all the more grubby and that, added to lack of sleep, rendered her irritable.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Basil said breezily.
‘Where else did you think I’d be,’ Susan snapped. ‘And where the bleedin’ hell have you been?’
‘Now, now, Susan,’ Basil admonished, ‘please remember who you’re talking to.’
Susan tried to sound contrite. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been an awful morning. For one thing, I can’t get through to the Air Ministry, not for love nor money.’
Basil took his place behind his desk and lit a cigarette.
‘Lines down, I expect,’ he said. ‘You may not have heard but the City took a pasting last night.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Are you worried about your people?’
‘My people?’
‘Your relatives.’
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Of course. Of course, I am.’
Basil pulled a wire tray to the centre of his desk and began leafing through his correspondence.
‘At least,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to worry about your husband. He’ll be safe enough in Evesham.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Susan.
‘After all, the BBC knows how to take care of its own.’ Basil balanced his cigarette carefully in the ashtray. ‘I’ve just been speaking with Rupert Talbot. He tells me the News Department is suffering problems of under-staffing. Lots of their young tigers have gone off and enlisted, it seems. If I planted a word in the right ear—’
‘Danny isn’t the type.’
‘The type? He’s an experienced editor, isn’t he?’ Basil said. ‘You might at least have the decency to let me finish.’
‘Yes, sorry. It’s just I know he wouldn’t fit in here.’
‘You mean you don’t want him back in London to queer your pitch.’
‘My pitch?’
‘Your – ah – friendship with Robert Gaines.’
‘Danny’s happy where he is,’ Susan said. ‘He has a girlfriend in Evesham.’
‘Does he, indeed? Well,’ Basil said, ‘one can hardly blame him for that. Nevertheless, there’s a vacancy for an editor in News and, in spite of your reservations, perhaps it might be better to let your husband decide for himself.’
‘Is this an offer,’ Susan said, ‘or is he being seconded?’
‘Contrary to popular perception,’ Basil said, ‘the BBC is not the Gestapo. He will have a choice.’
‘He won’t come.’
‘Wishful thinking, Mrs Cahill?’
‘Call it what you like,’ Susan said desperately. ‘I know he won’t come. He won’t leave this – this person in the lurch.’
‘It’s a serious affair, is it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And your affair with Robert Gaines,’ Basil said, ‘is that absolutely serious too?’
She couldn’t give him an answer because she didn’t know the answer. Biting her lip, she sat motionless behind her desk.
‘No matter.’ Basil lifted his cigarette and inhaled. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said, as if he had read her mind. ‘It is none of my business.’
‘What,’ Susan said, ‘about my husband?’
‘Yes,’ Basil said, ‘what about your husband?’
‘Will you …’ Susan began, then, startled, glanced up as Bob Gaines loped into the office waving a script and grinning all over his stupid face.
‘Well, speak of the devil,’ Basil said and, stubbing out his cigarette, hastily cleared space on his desk to receive the result of Bob’s labours.