The FitzOsbornes at War (21 page)

I
FEEL A BIT UNEASY,
writing this in Kernetin – even in my abbreviated and newly modified form. I’m certain the army intelligence people made a copy of Veronica’s letter, and now that they have its translation, they could easily work out most of the code, if they cared to make the effort. Still, the British government isn’t very likely to be interested in
my
ramblings, and who else would bother to search for my journal, which I keep hidden away so carefully? I suppose it
could
be of some, very limited, value to the Nazis when they invade – but then, we’ll all be dead or in prison camps, so it won’t matter very much.

Does everyone do this, I wonder? Dwell upon the worst imaginable outcome in horrifying detail, in the superstitious belief that this will stop it happening in reality? Or that if it
does
happen, it won’t come as too much of a shock? No, it’s probably just me.

But it’s no wonder I worry so much about everything, when I have Veronica telling me all
sorts
of hair-raising tales. Her trip to Spain, for example, to stop the Duke and Duchess of Windsor being
kidnapped by Nazis
!

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘You were dealing with
Nazis
?’

‘No, no,’ said Veronica, calmly unpacking her suitcase. ‘Well, not directly, although there were certainly a lot of them wandering about Madrid. No, we were just trying to dissuade the Spanish authorities from helping the Nazi agents.’

Then she explained that after Paris had fallen to the Nazis, the former King Edward the Eighth and Mrs Simpson – now the Duke and Duchess of Windsor – had fled to the south of France, and then driven across the border to Barcelona. A ship was meant to be arriving there to evacuate some British diplomats, but there was confusion as to whether anyone actually wanted the Duke – and especially his wife – back here in England. Apparently the British royals were furious about the prospect. By the time they’d decided to allow the Duke to come here, he’d gone on to Madrid. And that’s where he
really
started causing trouble – spending all his time with pro-Nazi Spanish aristocrats, talking loudly about how wonderfully the Nazis had transformed Germany and how Britain ought to sign a peace treaty with them.

‘Well, you can just imagine what Churchill thought of
that
,’ said Veronica. ‘Oh, and the Duke was making all sorts of personal demands, too – insisting on a job of “first-class importance” if he returned to England, and that his wife be titled “Her Royal Highness”, and so forth. But he’s still technically an officer of the British Army, so Churchill threatened a court martial if the Duke didn’t obey orders. And eventually, they packed up and went to Portugal as they’d been told.’

Veronica shook out a very crumpled chiffon evening gown, bearing signs of repeated hand-washing. ‘I don’t think this is fit to be worn ever again,’ she remarked.

‘You have lots of other gowns,’ I said impatiently. ‘Go on, what happened in Portugal?’

‘Well, the British Ambassador had organised for them to stay at a hotel, but they insisted on moving in with some local banker, who just
happened
to be a known Nazi agent. By then, Churchill had decided the Duke should be sent to the Bahamas as Governor. It was so far away, how could he possibly get into any trouble there? But it would take time to organise a ship, and meanwhile, that idiot Ribbentrop – you know he’s Germany’s Foreign Minister now – hatched this plot to get the Duke back to Spain. Once he was there, the Duke could be fed a lot of Nazi propaganda and “hold himself in readiness”.’

‘In readiness for what?’

‘Why, to become King of England again, of course. And then he could appoint Oswald Mosley as Prime Minister, and Britain could surrender to Germany.’

‘But . . . that’s insane!’

‘Perhaps, but Hitler agreed with Ribbentrop’s plans. And the Duke
did
send a telegram to the King, telling him to dismiss Churchill and the War Cabinet, and set up peace negotiations with Germany.’

‘I’m surprised the Germans would
need
to kidnap the Duke,’ I said. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t just waltz off to Berlin of his own accord.’

‘Well, that’s where the combined efforts of army intelligence and the Foreign Office came in, trying to persuade the Duke to stay in Lisbon till his ship arrived. And then another lot of us was in Spain, trying to convince the Spanish government to stay out of the whole thing.’

‘And you succeeded?’

‘Or the Germans failed, one or the other. Anyway, the Windsors are on their way to the Bahamas now.’

‘Goodness!’ I said, sitting back. ‘To think I was here in London, teaching Julia how to boil an egg, while you were doing all that!’

‘I’d rather have been with you,’ she said. ‘The food would have been a lot better . . . Oh, but I don’t mean to complain. Really, I was grateful we had anything at
all
to eat. It was so sad, Sophie, you’ve no idea. We’d drive past all these bombed villages, no crops planted, people huddled in make-shift shelters and eating weeds – and there isn’t any effort whatsoever being made to rebuild industries in the cities. Franco seems determined to drag the entire country back into the Middle Ages.’

‘Did you go anywhere near the Basque country?’

‘No, Madrid was the furthest north I went. We flew there from Lisbon.’ She closed the now-empty suitcase and set it on the floor. ‘Anyway, what’s new here?’

‘Not much. We had a letter from Alice in Fowey. Her brother-in-law took his fishing boat to Dunkirk and rescued five soldiers – it was awfully heroic – and now Jimmy’s longing to be old enough to join up. Oh, and a parcel arrived for you from America. I think it’s from Jack Kennedy.’

‘You could have opened it.’

‘I didn’t like to.’ I didn’t mention that the censor already had (and not done a very neat job of rewrapping it, either). I went to find it.

‘
Why England Slept
,’ said Veronica, reading the title of the book Jack had sent. ‘Oh, it’s his thesis! He did mention his father was arranging for it to be published.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Appeasement,’ she said, flicking through the book. ‘Why England was so unprepared for this war. How the pacifists and trade unions prevented effective rearmament in Britain. How feeble democracies are, compared to totalitarian states. You know, the usual Kennedy . . . Oh! I wonder where he got
those
figures.’

And she sank onto the bed, her nose buried in the book. I thought this might be a good time to test out something I’d been wondering about for a while.

‘Daniel telephoned twice, while you were away,’ I said casually.

‘Hmm?’ said Veronica.

‘To see whether you were back.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Did you know that in March, Germany was producing forty-three per cent more planes than Britain each month? But three months later, after Lord Beaverbrook took over, aircraft production here had increased to such an extent that it almost
matched
Germany’s.’

‘Anyway, Daniel said he’s being transferred somewhere else by the War Office.’

‘What?’ she said, glancing up. ‘Where?’

Finally! A reaction.

‘He didn’t say. He thought he might have already moved before you got back, but he said he’d write as soon as he was settled, and meanwhile, you could get in contact via his parents.’

‘Oh. All right then.’ She turned a page. This was
not
the behaviour of someone who was head over heels in love, I thought, but I made one last effort.

‘Do you have his parents’ address?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I’ve been there for luncheon.’

‘What?’ I goggled at her. ‘You didn’t tell me this! When?’

‘Um . . . a couple of weeks ago? Just before I went to Spain.’

I reached over and tugged the book away from her.
‘And?’

‘And we had some sort of chicken stew with dumplings, I think. Then apple strudel.’

‘What’s his
family
like?’

‘Oh. Well, his mother looks like him, only short and round instead of tall and thin. Plays the violin, speaks four languages, very charming and voluble. His father hardly said a word, just sat there glowering at his plate, but I think he was worried about some problem at the factory. What else? Oh, Daniel’s eldest sister is religious and has about half a dozen children, and his other sister is a doctor.’

‘A doctor!’

‘I know, it’s impressive, isn’t it? She did some of her training in Vienna. I didn’t actually meet either of his sisters, though. There was a big family portrait hanging in the drawing room, and his mother explained who everyone was.’

‘And she invited you to luncheon?’

‘No, I just turned up and demanded she feed me.’

I hit her with the book. ‘Veronica! Honestly, you never tell me
anything
! For all I know, it could have been a party to celebrate your engagement!’

She started laughing. ‘Heaven forbid! No, they were just curious to meet me, after hearing Daniel mention my name.’

‘Mention your name about a hundred times a day! His parents wanted to see if you’d make a suitable wife for him.’

‘You think so? Surely they wouldn’t have to meet me to realise how very unsuitable I’d be.’ She grabbed the book back, and added it to the teetering pile beside her bed. ‘But I
would
have told you about that luncheon, Sophie,’ she added, more seriously. ‘It’s just that it happened the day before I went to Spain, when everything turned so hectic.’

‘Hmm,’ I said, only partly mollified. ‘But
is
Daniel your boyfriend?’

‘Well, we certainly aren’t
engaged
. We haven’t even talked about that. But then, neither one of us really approves of the institution of marriage –’

‘Veronica,’ I interrupted, before she could launch into some Marxist-feminist critique of matrimony, ‘do you
love
him?’

‘Yes,’ she said without any hesitation. Then she sighed. ‘But the trouble with that word is that it has such a vast range of meanings. I may love him, but whatever I feel hasn’t much to do with . . . with
romance
.’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t want him to bring me flowers or write me sentimental poems. I haven’t any intention of changing my appearance to please him, not that he really cares about my hairstyle or whether I’m wearing lipstick. I don’t need to spend every moment of every day with him. I did miss him while I was away – but then, I missed
you
, too.’

She subsided into pensive silence. I was recalling her parents’ short, disastrous marriage and thinking that that was bound to have shaped her views, when she said, ‘I
do
feel a connection with Daniel. But I doubt it’s the same as what he feels for me, even if we both call it love. Men and women are so different.’

‘You mean . . . he wants to go to bed with you?’ I ventured, when she didn’t say anything else.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t as though he’s
insisting
upon it.’

‘I should hope not!’ I said, a little shocked, even though I was the one who’d brought up the subject. ‘You haven’t . . .’

‘No, I’m not curious enough yet. And even then, I’d have to be certain I wouldn’t get pregnant.’ She frowned. ‘Oh, everything was so much easier when we were simply friends! Especially now you’ve informed me that even his
parents
have an opinion on our future.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘It’s not your fault. But now it feels as though we’ve been shoved down a slippery slope that
has
to end in either marriage or estrangement, regardless of what we want.’

‘I thought
I
was supposed to be the melodramatic one,’ I said, making her laugh, as I’d intended.

‘Oh, I’m just tired,’ she said, shaking her head, but she insisted on doing most of her laundry, while I cleaned out the kitchen cupboard, which, in my absence, had been assailed by mice. Meanwhile, I was wondering whether it was in fact
worse
to have parents as happily in love as mine had been. Perhaps it set up unrealistic expectations. And then, of course, my parents had
died
before they could pass on their secrets for wedded bliss to me. I tried to imagine what advice my sensible mother might have for me, or for Veronica, but it didn’t really work. It did, however, distract me from my invasion fears for a few hours, so that was something.