The Scarlet Nightingale Page 8

  Much to my surprise, Harry asked me out again a few days later. We went boating on the Thames at Henley. I remember the date exactly – it was one of those wonderfully warm, late summer days. It was hard to believe we were at war. I felt like a princess, sitting in the back of the rowing boat with a parasol to shade my eyes from the sun, and Harry with his sleeves rolled up, rowing us under the bridge with its masks of Isis and Thamesis looking up and downstream. It was as though we were in a dream that neither of us wanted to break. Well, I knew I didn’t, and I hoped that Harry felt the same.

  We picnicked on the riverbank at Hambleden. There was a wistfulness about Harry now, as though some of the time his mind was elsewhere. I did not want to push him too hard in case I broke the spell. What I did want him to understand was that I was determined to play my part in the war and not just sit at home waiting. He smiled at me – that smile which always melted my heart – and I knew that he would not push me into anything I felt I could not undertake willingly.

  There were ducks quacking in the shallows, and Harry, lying back on a plaid rug spread out on the grass, was idly throwing them crumbs of bread.

  ‘Are we allowed to do that? Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ asked Rosamund teasingly.

  ‘Stale. Or, it would have been by the time we got it home.’

  ‘Mmm. I’m not sure I believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. And I never lie.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Well, hardly ever. Only when it is for the greater good.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds to me like a very convenient excuse.’

  ‘Ich sage die Wahrheit. I’m telling the truth!’

  Rosamund sat up. ‘I didn’t know you spoke German.’

  ‘Es gibt Dinge über mich, selbst du weist es nicht.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Harry grinned. ‘There are things about me even you don’t know.’

  Rosamund frowned. ‘I think there’s quite a lot about you I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, nothing sinister, I assure you.’

  ‘And the German?’

  ‘I studied it at University. As a hobby.’

  ‘A strange thing to study … as a hobby.’

  ‘Not really.’ Harry became more serious. ‘I saw the way the wind was blowing. I thought it might be useful. And it is, as things have turned out.’

  Rosamund flopped back on the rug. ‘I don’t think I want to talk about things like that. Not on a day like today, when the sun is shining and the ripples on the water are shimmering like diamonds, and the wands of the willow trees are gently swaying in the breeze …’

  ‘You’re such a romantic,’ murmured Harry.

  ‘Incurable, I know. I can’t help it.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get depressed?’

  ‘Oh, goodness. If you knew how long it has taken me to get out of that dreadful state, and how scared I am that I could go back there, you wouldn’t ask that …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. Don’t be. It’s just that I’ve realised it’s better to look for the good in people, rather than the bad. As Celine says, “Si vous cherchez le bien, vous le trouverez”.’

  ‘If you look for the good, you will find it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And have you?’ he asked pointedly.

  Rosamund paused and then said, ‘I’m not sure. I think so. I hope so.’

  There was silence between them for a few moments, then Harry flopped back on the rug, put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes before asking, ‘So when this lousy war is over, Miss Hanbury, what will you do?’

  Rosamund drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them; then she gazed across the water to where two swans were swimming, occasionally tapping their beaks together in some kind of mute conversation. ‘Oh, I shall get married and have children, and when they are grown up, I shall earn my living by writing romantic stories.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Well, that’s you sorted then.’

  ‘Yes. That’s me sorted.’

  Harry sat up. ‘We’d better be off. We need to get the boat back by six, and then I must drive you home.’

  Rosamund smiled, unsure as to how he had taken her revelations. She half wished she had not been so frank; wondered if it would have been better to have been more vague. But she did know, in her heart of hearts, that what she had said was absolutely true.

  She need not have worried. Harry did call again, and seemed not at all perturbed by the fact that she had been so open with him. Quite the reverse, in fact.

  He took her to Brighton. It seemed to Rosamund quite an adventurous trip. They went in his car, travelling over the downs with the roof of the Talbot folded back and the wind in her hair. They walked along the promenade – which seemed to be putting on a brave face in spite of wartime privations – and had a lunch of fish and chips. Harry had offered to take her for lunch at The Grand Hotel, but Rosamund had said it would be more fun to eat fish and chips out of newspaper.

  ‘That’s what I like about you,’ he said as they sat side by side on a bench on the promenade. The sun shone and the gentle breeze was beginning to strengthen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got no class,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘I thought you were going to say something nice!’ she teased.

  ‘Sorry to let you down.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me down?’ She popped another chip into her mouth.

  ‘Goodness, I hope not. What a thing to say.’

  ‘Well, as long as your intentions are honourable.’

  ‘Goodness! Do you know Pygmalion? By George Bernard Shaw?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  Harry gazed out to sea, collecting his thoughts. ‘Henry Higgins asks his friend Colonel Pickering if he has ever met a man of good character where women are concerned.’

  ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘Higgins says that there is no such thing.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I’ll make it my mission to prove him wrong.’

  Rosamund looked at him quizzically. ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ He screwed up the newspaper that had held his meal and threw his last chip at a seagull prospecting on the promenade. Within seconds others had come to investigate the arrival of free food, and both Harry and Rosamund found themselves running away from the flock of scavengers and laughing at the folly of Harry’s ill-timed generosity.

  As they walked along the promenade towards the car, the sky began to darken and a distant rumble of thunder indicated that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. They reached the car as large droplets of rain began to fall.

  ‘Quickly, help me put the hood up!’ instructed Harry.

  Rosamund looked puzzled at the collection of struts and folds of canvas. ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘That rod there,’ said Harry, pointing. ‘Pull it forwards and then push the one behind it backwards. Hurry! It’s getting harder!’

  It took a full two minutes to get the hood in place and for the two of them to scramble into the car, soaked to the skin, panting for breath.

  ‘You smell like a wet sheep,’ muttered Rosamund.

  ‘You don’t smell so good yourself,’ retorted Harry. Then the two of them began to laugh as the rain drummed on the canvas roof of the car. The laughter only stopped when Harry put his arms around her and kissed her.

  When, several minutes later, they eased apart, she rested her head on his shoulder and said, ‘What a lovely day.’

  ‘Really? In this weather?’

  ‘Who cares about the weather. Here we are, together, by the sea.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘By the sea and with a girl in my arms. My idea of heaven.’

  ‘Just any girl?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Not just any girl. The girl.’

  Rosamund smiled and kissed him gently on the che
ek. She could not remember ever being so happy.

  I remember quite vividly my last meeting with Harry. We had been out together several times in the intervening weeks, and it had taken all my resolve not to appear too keen, or to throw myself at him, though, goodness knows, I wanted to. He was the only man I had ever met in whose presence I felt completely comfortable, completely safe.

  When he called and asked if we could have lunch at the Savoy Grill, I suspected it was to say goodbye. I was not wrong.

  There was a look on Harry’s face that gave Rosamund cause for concern. He seemed distracted. His eyes darted up and down the menu, then he closed it and said, ‘I think I’ll just have a Bloody Mary.’

  ‘Not hungry?’

  ‘Not really. I had a big breakfast,’ he offered by way of an excuse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Toast and coffee.’

  ‘That’s hardly big!’

  ‘No, well, things on my mind. Things to do, I’m afraid …’

  Rosamund closed her own menu. ‘I see.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Is this it? Is this goodbye?’

  ‘Sort of. For a while.’

  She looked down, unwilling and unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘It’s not out of choice. I’ve been posted. Can’t tell you where.’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’

  The waiter came and Harry ordered his Bloody Mary. Rosamund settled for coffee and toast.

  ‘Are you copying me?’ asked Harry, forcing a smile.

  ‘Something like that.’ There was a profound sadness in her voice. She had found a man in whose company she felt secure and alive. Yes; that was it – alive. And now he was going away and she would … wither probably. She breathed deeply, telling herself that this was the case with all young women in this damned war. It wasn’t just her; everyone her age was in the same boat. Unfair it might be, but it was the way of the world right now in 1940. What a year to fall in love!

  The coffee came, along with Harry’s Bloody Mary, from which he took a generous gulp. ‘There’s something I want to say.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rosamund, almost involuntarily. She feared the worst was yet to come.

  ‘You remember that first night when I took you out?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ she murmured, not meeting his eye.

  ‘Well, you might have thought that the only reason I did so was to persuade you to play your part in the war. But that wasn’t the case. I asked you out because …’

  Rosamund looked up.

  ‘Because I love you. I have done from the moment I first laid my eyes on you.’

  It came like a bolt from the blue. They had been out together several times now, and she knew her own feelings quite clearly – had done since the very first time she had spotted him across the dance floor, had watched him from afar – the way he moved, the way he smiled – and had strained to hear his voice. But until he’d asked her to dance, she hadn’t thought he had been aware of her existence.

  ‘But … how could you … I mean, I didn’t think you had even noticed me.’

  ‘Oh, I noticed you. For the best part of a year I watched you, at a distance, too afraid to come over and say hello. I’ve seen you with others. I’ve watched you laugh, watched you engage in conversation, and compared your life with mine. I realised how little I had in common with Henrietta, and how the only person in the world whose company I really wanted was always on the other side of the dance floor with her arm round somebody else. I wanted to be that somebody. Why couldn’t it be me and not … Billy Belgate? And because I now have to go away, for heaven knows how long, I don’t want you to think that the only reason I asked you out was because I saw in you the sort of person who could help with the war effort. I asked you out because … well … I’ve told you now.’

  Rosamund was aware that her mouth was wide open. She closed it and felt tears springing to her eyes. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand with all her might. ‘I am so sorry.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry that I thought what I thought. It was only that I couldn’t possibly believe my luck. Believe my good fortune. Men like you don’t fall for girls like me.’

  ‘This one did.’

  Rosamund smiled through the tears and rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief. ‘At least these aren’t rationed,’ she murmured, blowing her nose.

  And then, pointing to Harry’s Bloody Mary, ‘Do you think I might have one of those?’

  Their meeting lasted for three hours, both of them aware that they might not meet again for some time, and not daring for a moment to think that they might never meet again.

  ‘You’ll be in danger, won’t you?’ she asked matter-of-factly as they got up from the table.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And … in another country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She put her arm through his as they walked to the door. ‘It’s all right. I won’t ask any more questions. You can trust me.’

  ‘I know I can.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As they walked along the Embankment, he said, ‘You remember that lunch party you had with your aunt?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one with Lord and Lady Belgate and Sir Patrick and Lady Felpham.’

  ‘Yes. But how did you know about that?’

  ‘Sir Patrick asked if you knew where this secret place was where they worked on code-breaking?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ She stopped walking and turned to look at Harry; her face the picture of concern.

  ‘And you told him you had no idea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I had told you just a few days before that it was at Moor Park in Hertfordshire.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must forgive me. Because as well as being madly in love with you, I had to find out if I could trust you.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Sir Patrick, old fossil that he appears to be – all bluster and expanding waistline – is a bright old bird and part of the code-breaking set up, which is not at Moor Park but at a place in Buckinghamshire called Bletchley Park. I can tell you that now because I know that I can trust you with my life.’

  Rosamund made to speak, but Harry interrupted her: ‘And if you now want to hit me, and tell me that you never want to see me again – which, in the balance of probability in this wretched war, there is a chance that might well be the case – I shall completely understand.’

  Rosamund stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘So you deliberately gave me false information to see if I would pass it on to anybody else?’

  ‘Yes. And before you say anything else, it was unworthy of me and I deserve everything you throw at me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But please understand that I just wanted to be sure that you were the sort of woman I thought you were and I wasn’t just being blinded by love.’ He stopped and raised his arms in supplication. ‘So there you have it.’

  Rosamund looked at him, then slowly shook her head. ‘I suppose I should be angry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And tell you to … bugger off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re going to do that anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Harry. Why did we have to fall in love?’

  ‘You mean you …?’

  ‘Oh yes. Absolutely, totally and completely … you rotten bastard.’

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately, as the air raid siren sounded and the distant growl of aircraft began to rend the air.

  Chapter 8

  LONDON

  SPRING 1941

  ‘This is no war of chieftains or of princes, of dynasties or national ambition; it is a war of peoples and of causes. There are vast numbers, not only in this island but in every land, who will render faithful service in this war, but whose names will never be known, whose deeds will never be recorded.’

 
Winston Churchill, 14 July 1940

  It was after Harry left that Rosamund began regularly to keep a journal. It replaced, in some way, the notebooks she filled with stories in her youth and childhood. It was not so much a diary or even a daily recording of events, more jottings of this and that – key moments of her life, amusing or momentous events that she wanted to record in the otherwise dark days of war. She wrote her notes in red ink for the simple reason that she found a pot of it in the desk in Aunt Venetia’s drawing room, and it seemed much less portentous in these times of conflict than funereal black or gloomy blue.

  ‘Red ink,’ muttered Aunt Venetia, ‘is usually an indication of debt – but I suppose we are in debt as a country, not least to those who are fighting for us.’

  Tough old bird that she was, there were moments when Rosamund could see something of her father’s broodiness in his sister. For all her joie de vivre and waspish asides, Aunt Venetia remained silent on her deepest inner feelings – for the most part, at least – just occasionally giving vent to her spleen and shouting at the enemy planes that roared and growled overhead: ‘Oh, bugger off!’ The exhortation seemed to take on a humorous side when it came from a well-spoken dowager in furs and diamonds, which Aunt Venetia would occasionally appear in of an evening, in defiance of the woes of the world around her.

  Once or twice a month she would persuade a few friends to come to dinner, rather than lunch, insisting that the men don black tie (she had reluctantly accepted the demise of white tie and tails) and the ladies wear long dresses, gloves and jewels. Those who objected – whether on the grounds that they would like as not be robbed on their way to Eaton Square, or simply that such outward demonstrations of wealth did not seem fitting during the war – were told to get a grip; this was defiance, not ostentation. Most did. Those who did not were not invited again.

  As the weeks since Harry left turned into months, Rosamund clung on to the hope that she would hear from him; that he was at least alive, if nothing more. It was a long time before any message came. When it did, in the spring of 1941, it was on a single sheet of paper sealed in a small, plain envelope. It bore no indication of its exact point of origin and it was delivered by a uniformed messenger on a motorbike: