Bob arrived back at Mrs. Franks just after seven o’clock the next morning. “Jerry has blocked the main rail stations.”
I looked over my strawberry jam home-made muffin. “So how do we get out?”
Bob grinned. “We know London better than Jerry. We’ll get you up to Finsbury Park on the Piccadilly Line. That gets you out of the way. Then you can get a more local train up to Peterborough. Make your journey in small steps, that way you’re only guilty of having been to the last place, not London.” He looked at our clothes. “You’ll need some duds I’m afraid. Both of you look like you’re out on the town, and didn’t quite make it home yet.”
It was ten o’clock by the time Mrs. Baird and I walked to Russell Square tube station on the Piccadilly Line. I could hardly believe our new look, considerably dressed down from our Ritz garb. Bob and Mrs. Frank had given us superb directions and a package of sandwiches. I knew they were just butter and jam, but we thanked her and forced a fiver into Mrs. Frank’s hand. Alice was almost in tears at the parting after knowing her for just a few hours.
We got our papers checked at Russell Square, but the examination was hardly more than cursory, far less than Bob insisted was going on at Kings Cross. When our tube pulled into the larger station, I saw more German uniforms on the platform than civilians. Luckily their attention was on people approaching the trains, not those already aboard. I thanked our good fortune and spent the rest of our short journey looking out the grubby window.
We got off at Finsbury Park, and changed platforms to the main line north. At eleven fifteen, we boarded a train for Sheffield, and got off at Peterborough, as Bob had suggested.
At the ticket office, we were informed that no Edinburgh trains had made it out of London so far that day, but we could get as far north as York with little trouble.
We spent the night in the Cathedral city, and purchased a small case for the new clothes we’d bought; the stuff from Bob had been rather tawdry, and we both agreed to do a little shopping before retiring for the night.
‘Sunday Service’ was a phrase much used the next day at York station to blame the lack of trains through the town, but we did get tickets for the Edinburgh Express that passed through at one o’clock. Our tickets, however, did not guarantee us seats, and I stood until Newcastle, a good ninety minutes.
I never thought I’d be so glad to see Auld Reekie again. Arthur’s Seat was visible for miles, and even Edinburgh Castle with its gory German swastikas looked warm and comforting.
I had a pint in the Station Bar, and another at the Guildford Arms at the top of the Waverley Steps. I was both relieved to be home, but also had to face mum. I had no real reason to be nervous, but after sleeping with my wife for over a week, I was reticent to go back to the old ways of separate rooms.
Eventually my mood spilled over. “What do you think is waiting for us at the apartment?”
Alice’s face fell. “Oh, you’ve been thinking about that too, huh?”
“Nothing else for the last hour or so.”
To my surprise, she downed the rest of her drink in one go, slammed the glass onto the bar table, and stood up sharply. “Well, it looks like this is the way to find out!”
Of course, she was right. I had a fair sup of my half-filled pint, and left the dregs.
Trams were less frequent on Sundays, but we caught what must have been one of the last ones, a number eleven, and got off ten minutes later.
It was difficult to make no noise in the large square shaft that was the internal staircase, as every foot shuffle and every word carried and reverberated up into the darkness above. It came as no surprise to me when mum opened the door before we’d got our keys ready.
“Come in!” she fussed, and motioned us past her. “Come on, tell us all about it!”
Frances appeared from her room, clapping her hands together in front of her face excitedly. We all gathered at the kitchen table, where mum put the kettle on, and we started the story of our adventures in London.
Well, our romantic, tourist adventures.
When we’d done, both mum and Frances rose, exchanging glances. “Come on,” Mum said, smiling broadly. “Come see what we’ve done.”
What they ‘had done’ was move all of Alice’s and my stuff into the sitting room, the room that I’d been dossing down in since Alice’s arrival. In place of my mattress on the floor sat a large double bed, all made out with a new quilt. The furniture too had changed, the room contained Alice’s bedside table, and my old chest of drawers. Gone were the two seater couch and an armchair to make room for the new transformation.
I could hardly believe it.
My head was just getting round the fact that I was going to sleep with Alice that night when I realized Frances was still jumping. “What?” I said mockingly.
“I got your room!” She couldn’t stop bobbing up and down. “I’m still moving in, but I’m almost done. It’s huge, I love it.”
It looked like we’d all gotten our way, and in moving Frances, mum had put a spare room between us and them. I hugged her while I silently congratulated her on her wisdom. Obviously having us making noises next to Frances would have been awkward for both parties concerned.
Mum clasped my hand, and held it softly. “We do have some bad news, however, and we’re not sure if you’ve heard it or not.”
“What?” I looked deep into her eyes which had softened to a smile.
“Hibs got gubbed on Saturday.” She said, nodding her head.
Frances growled. “By Rangers, of course.”
I shrugged, it was hardly good news, but in the grander scheme of being dragged from bombed hotels, it settled into insignificance. “Well that makes the Cup Final next week something of a damp squib.”
“Aye, it sure does.” Mum agreed.
My Grandad Baird had a saying; ‘back to auld claithes an’ porridge’, when he came back from any holiday or trip away. The phrase really took its meaning the next morning. We’d lost all our ‘good’ clothes in London, and even the stuff in our drawers looked shabby in comparison to what we’d wore that night in the Ritz. I’d gone from a nice evening suit to flannels and a sports jacket.
And of course to complete the phrase, mum served porridge for breakfast, a huge gulf from the top hotel’s food.
I determined that we’d change the clothes problem soon; I still had some of my Scotsman pay left, and a few fivers from the Findlay account.
But work came first, and Monday morning in the office hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I put my head down, gathering everyone’s stories, but my heart wasn’t in it. At twelve-thirty I walked to German HQ and presented myself to Möller and went through the motions there too. He obviously knew about our honeymoon, I’d just forgotten to mention London. He was under the impression I’d traveled to Inverness, in completely the other direction. It wasn’t a difficult ruse to pull off; we’d holidayed up there when I was thirteen, and I still remembered the hotel and its surroundings.
It wasn’t until we sat in the Golf tavern that night that I got to the root of my problem. “They’ve taken it away from me.” I said, looking over the top of a new pint.
Alice looked up from her Evening News. “What’s that?”
“The Tree,” I pulled on my Forty Shilling ale and was rewarded by a satisfying belch that only beer can bring. “I haven’t felt right since I came back to Edinburgh. But that’s it; they took the Tree away from me. It was going to be my baby, not a bloody national edition.”
“Then find yourself something else to do.”
I looked up at her, almost going to argue my point, but was met by her smile; her sexy ‘I’m not taking no for an answer’ smile. “I’m going to take you to bed, Missus Baird.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes,” I leaned over the low table. “And I’m going to give you a good spanking.”
It’s amazing how a good roll in the hay can change your mood. I fell asleep instantly and dreamed of Hibs meeting Celtic in the Cup Final.
My euphoria even stretched into the next morning; I met each task with more energy than the day before, and was in far better spirits when I met Captain Möller.
“Are you a betting man, Mr. Baird?” he asked as he handed back our stories. He appeared distracted, and had hardly given the papers more than a cursory examination.
“I have done in the past.” Well, I had placed a bet when we all went to the racing once… a long time ago.
“The racing at Musselburgh is starting again, next Wednesday. I have tickets. Would you like to go?”
I could think of nothing worse but to spend my day in his company, but he’d opened up to me, and it was a way into his social life. And getting to know Jerry was part of my job. “Aye, sure, I mean yes, I’d like that, thanks.”
He produced a ticket from his desk drawer. A three inch square of bright blue with gold embossed lettering. Attached was a gold string loop. Fastened to the outside of my jacket, I would have access to all parts of the course.
Musselburgh Races
Wednesday 13th August, 1941.
Doors open 12.00 noon. First race at 2.00pm.
Gold Medal Admission 5/-
I pocketed the ticket, made more sounds of gratitude, then walked away, wondering what Gold Medal could offer that the General Admission would not.
And, of course, when I got back to the office, we put the pile of books into the window, denoting that we had a message.
Balfour met us that evening as we crossed the bridge over the railway station, on our way to Princes Street. “Boss wants to meet. He says you’ve got stuff to discuss.”
So Ivanhoe wanted word on our trip to London. “Aye, probably.”
“He says he wants you to get yourself to the Caledonian; he’s got a room, 107.”
“Now?”
“Yes, ASAP.”
He’d made no effort to keep Alice out of the conversation, so I shrugged my shoulders. “So much for shopping.”
“You go, I’ll spend your money.”
I caught a convenient tram, and soon was at the far end of Princes Street.
The Caledonian Hotel sat above Princes Street rail station and was considered to be the ‘second best hotel’ in Edinburgh after the Balmoral. Yeah, and they really hated that moniker.
I waltzed past reception and up the main staircase, soon finding room 107.
“Come in,” Ivanhoe called after I knocked. “You’ve got a report to make.”
And I told him all about the meeting with Findlay and Gubbins.
“I didn’t think you’d get to keep control,” he said finally. “That idea was so top-hole that I was sure they’d strip you smartish.”
I didn’t need his thoughts on the matter, especially since he looked so cocky on the subject. Then, of course I told him of the Ritz bombing. That got his attention. Then came the invitation to Musselburgh Races; all in all the whole briefing took me an hour to recant.
“I have a mission for you,” he said, satisfied I’d given him all my news. I can’t say I was unhappy about receiving it; my ‘fighting for the cause’ had taken a hit after losing control of The Tree.
“Hit me.”
“Well, we’ve got a bit of a flap on right now, nothing to worry about, but enough for you to know, we’ve got a lot of stuff going down tomorrow.”
“Here? In Edinburgh?”
Ivanhoe shook his head. “No, more all over the country. It’s a reminder to the folks and Jerry that we’re still fighting.”
“And the Ritz bombing?”
“Oh that’s probably connected, but on loose terms. This push tomorrow is to remind Jerry that he can’t let his guard down, even during the week.”
“And my mission?”
“To watch the newspaper reaction to our ‘push’. I need to know what’s going on, and you’re my eyes.”
Brilliant, I was to read newspaper clippings as my patriotic duty. Even though the head wound still ached from time to time, I still craved some action.