I’d never had such fare before.
The ‘kale soup’ contained more meat and vegetables that I’d seen in months, and the stew that followed showed the abundance of the countryside in spades.
At night, we staggered into Alice’s bedroom, our heads soused with far too much Schnapps. I don’t remember much of the ‘after-evening’ events, but I do remember seeing the bedroom door ajar at one point, and Agnes’s face poking through, grinning at me.
I never mentioned it to Alice. Ever.
The next morning we filled the car full of illicit petrol, farm issue dyed red, but we didn’t care because no one ever checked anyway, and left them with a detailed map of how to get to the apartment.
When we got back to Edinburgh, the boot was full of vegetables, a few cuts of beef, yes actual beef, and a host of memories.
I hired a third dress, one for Agnes, and with just a day to go, found myself in the church, doing a run-through. Rather than in the vestry as planned, we stood in the church proper. “I thought it was going to be a small wedding?” I said as an aside to my ‘intended’.
“Dummy,” Frances spoke first. “You left mum to do the planning. She’s got half the block coming, and she’s been on the telephone non-stop.”
Luckily I had enough money for a few rooms at the Links Hotel just up the road, for the extended family.
The most surprised person invited was my old friend Raymond Gillespie. The last time I’d spoken was immediately after the victory parade on Princes Street, nearly nine months before, but I’d gotten his address from University Admissions and took an early train to Cupar in Fife.
Auchtermuchty wasn’t exactly on the beaten track, but with pile of cash on me, the taxi fare from the train station was chump change. I watched Raymond’s expression change from complete gawk to that of just pure astonishment.
Needless to say, he agreed immediately, and we returned together to Edinburgh deep in conversation, catching up with each other’s lives.
It had been a hastily-organized event, but on Thursday afternoon we all gathered at the church.
Yes, Agnes looked gorgeous in her dress, but I was simply spellbound at the sight of my wife-to-be; she appeared radiant as she walked up the aisle, clutching onto Harold’s arm, the bridal march blasting into the eaves from the large pipe organ. Alice had simply never looked better, and in that moment, I knew I was the luckiest man on the planet.
Once the ceremony was over, we walked in procession up the diagonal path across the Links up the hill to the hotel. It was a hundred yard walk, no-one saw the point in hiring cars. I remember seeing many such processions in my time on Barclay Terrace. Golfers stopped and applauded, we were celebrities for a fleeting moment.
Yes, again we drank too much, but there were no untoward incidents, apart from Agnes the minx cupping my arse as we danced. She pulled me so tight to her that nothing was left to the imagination. “Have a good time with my sister tonight,” she said sexily as the music faded. We made our way back to the tables, and I swore never to be alone with her again; she was far too much of a woman for me, and literally scared the daylights out of me.
With the wedding firmly behind us, we boarded the London Express first thing on Saturday morning, and I mean first thing; five past seven in the morning. I’d studied the route; the train started in Edinburgh, and would travel down the eastern coast until England got fat. We found a quiet compartment in a carriage near the buffet car, and sat in forward-facing left-side seats to get the most from the forthcoming view. Before the train left the Lothians I had already congratulated myself in my forward planning, and had my first beer before the train passed through the coastal town of Dunbar. Heck, the train even had a barber on board, but since I’d just had it trimmed for the wedding, I couldn’t in all honesty avail myself of the service.
The one thing I hadn’t planned was the fall back down to Earth. Three days spent in the country, in wedding plans and the wedding itself, had rid me of the constant reminder of the German menace. The London train brought it back with a vengeance, and we saw hosts of uniforms at every juncture.
To mitigate my feelings, I hugged Alice closer, and luxuriated in their jealous stares. I was on my honeymoon, dammit, and headed for the Ritz in London.
The train may have been called the ‘Express’, and the scenery changed every second, but even with the moving slide-show outside our window, with extended stops in Newcastle, York and Doncaster, it still took us a grueling eight hours to get to London.
In King’s Cross I was shocked. If I’d thought there were Germans on every corner in Edinburgh, in London it was two, maybe three times worse. We’d had our papers checked once at Waverley before boarding, and once on the train between York and Doncaster.
We heard the challenge ‘Papiere’ three times before we walked out of King’s Cross Station onto the streets of London.
The taxi rank outside also dwarfed that of its poor cousin in the north. At least twenty cabs sat waiting, the drivers either inside or standing chatting to each other. We walked towards the head of the line, and the driver hurried towards us, grabbing our single case. “Where to, sir?”
“The Ritz, please,” I said as if it were an everyday occurrence. I knew unscrupulous taxi drivers took the long way just to boost their earnings, and I didn’t intend to get caught out. I also knew the route had a ‘tube’ route, but we both wanted to see the city, even if it were the boring non-descript parts of it.
We drove along Euston Road, and in parts the buildings damaged in the so-called Battle of London had already been cleared to the ground, and new structures rose. I’d heard the fighting had been street to street in places, and again, some of the standing buildings had bullet holes chipped out of the stone to testify to the fierce resistance. We turned south down Great Portland Street and were greeted by whole blocks of buildings gone, reduced to the ground, the large stones being worked by hundreds of masons chipping away. I spoke to the driver for the first time. “Bad fighting here?”
He nodded, twisting his head round to us at a seemingly impossible angle. “The Luftwaffe hit here, our boys were dug in deep.”
“What about the people?” Alice asked, a concerned expression filling her face.
“Down on the tube lines mostly. Our boys left them tunnels pretty much alone, Jerry did the same. Considering the ferocity of the fighting, it was conducted in a gentlemanly fashion.”
We drove for a while in silence, although I did notice the preponderance of bicycles, rarely seen in Edinburgh with its hillier base.
We eventually turned out onto Piccadilly, a station on the underground route, so I knew our driver had been diligent with our choice of route. Soon I recognized the frontage of the Ritz building and its huge green copper lions on the roof, looming closer on our left. A host of German staff cars stood outside, and we had to pass the corner to stop out of the flow of traffic. As I paid the driver, I felt uncomfortable to some high degree.
To say the Ritz was ostentatious was to describe a peacock as just a game bird. I had no idea how much the Hotel cost to run, but both outside and inside it put anything in Edinburgh to shame. There seemed to be no expense spared in any quarter. Plush carpets, huge areas of shiny lacquered wood, the seats all leather, the finishing touches all burnished gold. Treated like royalty from the front door, we were ushered to the main desk by one of the many doormen, wearing long coats of navy blue with yellow piping, topped with a tall black bowler hat.
“We’re guests of Sir Edmund Findlay,” I said, trying to keep my accent to a minimum.
“Hold on, sir.” The clerk said, flicking through a huge ledger. “Ah, here we are. Your room is booked for a week, sir. Please wait while I summon a bell-hop.” He hit a shiny gold bell on top of the counter.
A young man arrived almost before the ring had died. A tight maroon hussar jacket fitted his lithe body to a fraction of an inch, a small black pillar-box hat completed his uniform. We were whisked away to allow the next guest to stand in line; a German general who loudly announced his name as Kessler.
Our room was larger than I expected, and wonderfully furnished. I tipped the bell-hop who may have been older than us, and settled back on the huge bed. “We’re on Honeymoon,” Considering I was going to bed Alice, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Yes, we are.” She crossed to the window, which overlooked the trees of Green Park. “I’m starving.”
We were in London on business, but that didn’t start until nine a.m. on Monday morning, so for the rest of Saturday, and the entire whole of Sunday, we lived as Honey-mooning tourists. If we weren’t in bed, we were sightseeing, and if we weren’t out on the streets soaking in every sight we could think of, we were cavorting in and around our great bed. It was the best time of my life, and I’m certain Alice enjoyed it just as much as I did.
Monday morning, however, came around far too quickly. I left Alice naked in our bed, and reluctantly headed out for my meeting.
The Houses of Parliament are a sight to see for any tourist, but for me, who got to walk in the front door, they were simply breathtaking. Just walking inside I considered myself extremely fortunate. Of course it goes without saying that they would have been far more impressive without the myriad of swastikas hanging from every window and flagpole. That and the seemingly constant snap of ‘papiere!’
I waited in line at a desk similar to that in the Ritz, without the gold trim though.
“Sir Edmund Findlay,” I eventually said as if the name itself would serve as a password to halls further inside.
“Which department?”
“Eh, I don’t know. It’s at nine o’clock though.” I had no idea if the Parliamentary Intelligence Committee were something that was hush-hush or out in the open, and I wasn’t going to be the one who blabbed out of place. The man behind the desk did not try to contain his displeasure at having to go through every page before he found the correct entry. I looked at the clock behind him; eight forty-seven.
“Ah, Sir Edmund Findlay; Parliamentary Oversights.” He announced as if it would mean something to me. He pointed to a map stuck to the desktop.
I walked away with a visitor tag pinned to my jacket, and a complex series of directions in my head.
I found the door to the corridor, papiere, checked off the second turn on the right, another guard, then three turns, I found myself outside briefly, then back inside to a much lower building. I guessed this was where the ‘real work’ was done.
Outside the main conference room, I found Sir Edmund chatting to a middle-aged man, balding, thick moustache. I could see a stiff bearing in the man, and suspected some military history. Both were down to shirt sleeves, rolled up past the elbows.
“Ah, Baird, old boy,” Findlay waved me closer. “Let me introduce your boss, this is Brigadier Colin Gubbins.”
We shook hands, and he smiled warmly. “Edmund here tells me you are responsible for good relations with Jerry in Scotland.”
“I’m not really sure…”
Gubbins waved my modesty away. “Come on, I read every report, I know about the Troon affair, and the nuclear scientists. You, young man, are an asset to the organization, and a credit to your country.”
I felt like asking if he’d read all the reports, then what was I doing here, but in the end I just played the dumb kid, and let it all happen around me.