No mention was made in the BBC bulletin of the two thousand people killed or of the homes destroyed, no mention even of the city, although everyone knew the censor’s ‘port in the north-west’ was Liverpool. In the Citadel the cost was carefully calculated, but in tons of food and fuel burnt, in ships sunk and berths damaged.
Mary had spoken to Lindsay on the telephone but he had not wanted to talk of Liverpool and by then the bombs were falling on London again. She had returned home very late one night to find Lord North Street closed and St John’s Church in Smith Square burning like a torch. For more than an hour she had stood and watched the fire as if at the bedside of a dying friend, and reflected on the strange world she inhabited at the Citadel, where a church counted for so much less than a tanker.
The list of ships lost in the Atlantic was longer every week and yet the fog in which those in Room 41 had always worked was clearing a little. There were days when bold black track lines criss-crossed the main submarine plot with certainty and the enemy pinheads sported numbers like U-552 and U-96. And every day the mountain of signals on Mary’s desk rose a little higher. The Citadel was a jealous master. She spoke to Lindsay on the telephone when she could but it was often after midnight and their conversations would peter out in weary frustrated silence.
At the time it had seemed like a coincidence but later, when she reflected on her exchange with Rodger Winn, she was not so sure. It was early afternoon on the day she had arranged to meet Lindsay after almost a fortnight apart. Winn had just returned from a meeting with the Director of Naval Intelligence and was talking to one of the watch-keepers in his office. Mary glanced up from the anti-submarine warfare bulletin she was reading and across at him. He caught her eye and smiled. A few minutes later the watch-keeper, Lieutenant Herbert, tapped her on the shoulder: ‘Rodger says can you leave that for a moment, he’d like a word.’
She found Winn leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. He sighed loudly as Mary stepped into the room.
‘You look weary, Rodger.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘Perhaps you’re pushing yourself a little too hard.’ It was more familiar than she had ever been with Winn but his smile suggested he was touched by her concern.
‘I am tired, Mary, tired of other people’s stupidity. No, no, I don’t mean you.’
‘You’re not about to give me a dressing-down?’
‘No. Whatever for? You’ve really taken to this work — much more reliable than the chaps here.’ He paused for a moment to light a cigarette, then said: ‘How much do you know about Station X?’
‘Almost nothing, except that we have a lot to thank them for. Frankly I’ve been too frightened to ask.’
‘You know, the special intelligence we’re getting now is just the tip of the iceberg,’ said Winn. ‘In the weeks to come it could alter the balance of the war at sea.’
Mary nodded.
Winn leant forward to cram the cigarette he had just lit into an ashtray already overflowing with butts. She could tell he was on edge. ‘You’re a member of a very small circle, Mary. And the members of the circle must guard its secret very closely…’
Mary flushed a little: ‘I know that, Rodger.’
‘Yes,’ said Winn uncomfortably. ‘This is difficult. I understand you’re seeing Lieutenant Lindsay.’
Mary stared at him, confused for a moment and embarrassed. Then a hot tide of anger began to well up inside her and it was with difficulty that she managed to steady her voice: ‘Who told you that?’
‘The Director’s Assistant. Fleming had it from your brother.’
‘Yes, I’m seeing Douglas but I can’t see what that has to do with you or him.’
‘Can’t you?’ asked Winn coolly.
‘No,’ she lied.
‘Of course you can.’
Mary was about to say something but Winn held up his hand.
‘No. Let me finish. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but the security people want to question you. Fleming has put them off. He told them I would speak to you instead.’
‘Why? Is this to do with Douglas’s family?’
‘Yes. And also his interest in our codes. He’s one of the few people fighting this war who’s face to face with the enemy every day. The interrogators are under orders to avoid any reference to signals or codes. They could let something slip, a careless observation, a badly phrased question that reveals something about our signals or theirs. It’s too risky — it could find its way to Berlin. Prisoners have their ways of passing on intelligence too. We know that.’
‘I see.’
‘So you will be careful what you say won’t you?’ said Winn.
‘Of course,’ she said crossly.
‘Sorry,’ said Winn — there was nothing in his voice to suggest that he meant it — ’but we need to be clear about these things.’
‘And you are now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll excuse me.’
Winn shuffled awkwardly in his chair. Mary was struck again by the tired lines on his face, the tobacco-yellow tinge to his complexion, and in spite of herself she felt sorry for him. He was doing no more than his duty.
‘It’s fine, Rodger. I know how important security is.’
He blinked at her and smiled: ‘I know you do.’
She was at the door of his office when, almost as an afterthought, he said: ‘Funny, but he seems to have upset a few people, doesn’t he?’
Mary turned to look at him sharply. ‘Douglas? Who has he upset?’
‘Well, what about your brother?’
It troubled Mary for the rest of the day. People were talking about her, asking, ‘Can Mary be trusted?’ It had never crossed her mind that she should speak of her work but Winn had gone out of his way to warn her against it and in a strange way that made a difference. She felt as if she was being drawn into a conspiracy to keep Lindsay at a distance. She was conscious that she was doing only half her job and she kept glancing furtively over at Winn’s office to see if he was watching her. Winn was far too busy. He had probably forgotten their conversation already. But she felt an enormous sense of release when, at a little after seven, she stepped out of the Citadel into evening sunshine.
She had arranged to meet Lindsay beneath the lions in Trafalgar Square. He had booked a table at La Coquille just two minutes walk away in St Martin’s Lane. It was only a few days after one of the heaviest raids Mary could remember and yet the square was bustling with West End theatre-goers. A group of young women in air-force blue was feeding the pigeons, joking, laughing, and a pavement artist was hanging his pictures on the railings outside St Martin-in-the-Fields.
‘Hello you.’
Mary felt his lips upon her neck and she reached up to touch his hair. Lindsay turned her shoulders towards him, held both her hands and looked at her intently.
‘I don’t know if I’ve said it already, but you have the most beautiful eyes.’
‘I think you’ve mentioned it, yes.’
‘It’s worth mentioning again. Shall we go?’
‘Do we have to, Douglas? I don’t feel very hungry.’ She knew she did not want to spend the evening in a smoky restaurant.
‘No, not if you don’t want to.’ He sounded rather disappointed. ‘What would you prefer to do? It’s too late for a show.’
‘Then take me home.’ The words seemed to slip from her. A thrilling impulse, not a thought, and she felt a little frightened.
Lindsay said nothing, but offered her his arm and they crossed the square.
‘Have you missed me?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’ve thought about you all the time.’
‘Tell me about Liverpool?’
They walked slowly along Whitehall, past the Admiralty, Downing Street and the Treasury and Lindsay spoke of HMS White and the prisoners. The commander of the 112 had been at Trent Park for a week: ‘Mohr’s men call him “the Buddha”. They respect him but they don’t love him. He looks like every British boy’s idea of an evil U-boat commander, black leather jacket, swarthy complexion — by no means the perfect Aryan man.’
She laughed. ‘You mean like you.’
By the time they turned into Lord North Street the sky behind the broken silhouette of St John’s was a rich blue. Mary took the key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking a little.
‘Where’s your…’ Lindsay cleared his throat. ‘Where’s your uncle?’ He was nervous too.
‘In his constituency.’
The door clicked behind them. Before she could switch on the light he turned her towards him, held her face between his hands and kissed her, slowly at first and then quicker, harder, with trembling urgency. She was clinging to him but he pushed her gently away and his fingers were on her face then on her breasts, loosening her blouse.
‘Where?’ She took his hand and kissed it.
‘This way.’
And fear was gone, and reason; there was only love and a wild excitement that just for a moment made her laugh out loud.
Later they lay together in silence, naked beneath a cotton sheet, her head resting on his chest. The steady beat of his heart made her smile. She was lying next to a man and that man had been inside her. Why had she let him make love to her? She was in love with him, she was sure of that. She had never been orthodox in her views about sex before marriage but it had happened tonight because, there in Trafalgar Square, she had wanted to draw him closer than any man had ever been to her, to give him a part of herself.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘Oh about you, about us.’
Her head slipped from his chest as he shuffled down the bed and on to his side to look into her eyes: ‘I love you.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said brusquely.
He laughed.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to give myself to a man who didn’t.’ Lindsay smiled and stroked her face with his fingertips: ‘I was under the impression you’d taken rather than given.’
Mary pushed at him playfully: ‘Are you accusing me of being forward?’
‘No, I’m grateful to you, and in love with you.’ He reached beneath the sheet to caress her.
‘Grateful?’ She expected him to say something flippant but his face stiffened a little and he rolled on to his back.
‘Grateful? Oh for bringing a little hope into my life, some love, yes some hope.’
‘Was it so bleak?’
He gave a long sigh then swung his legs off the bed and stood up. She watched as he reached over to the bedside lamp and then he was lost in the darkness. A moment later she heard the clang of the shutter guard and thin white light poured into the room.
‘Yes, it was bleak.’ He padded back to the bed, sat on the end of it and reached under the sheet for one of her feet. ‘I don’t know. These things affect people differently but I’ve felt, well, angry, depressed, mostly guilty.’
Mary interrupted: ‘Your ship? But you did more than your duty.’
He gave her foot a gentle squeeze. ‘I didn’t really, you know.’
‘Of course you did. They don’t give medals out for nothing.’
He snorted and shook his head vigorously. ‘Yes they do. That was nothing. Nothing.’
Mary sat up and the sheet slipped from her as she moved down the bed towards him. She put her arms around him, pressing herself tightly against his back. They sat there in silence for a while, then she said: ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘No,’ he said abruptly.
She felt a pang of disappointment and almost let go of him.
‘Why won’t you talk about it?’
He must have heard the disappointment in her voice because he turned to face her, leant forward and kissed her gently.
‘I can’t, Mary. Not yet. Not tonight.’