‘But I hadn’t thought –’ Keth stopped, all at once feeling real fear.
‘What hadn’t you thought?’
‘That I was all that important. No one told me about anything like – well, that …’
‘Then you should have been told. And we do not consider any of our operatives unimportant, Captain. You are being sent to France because you have special knowledge of the machine you are to bring back with you and not because of your prowess as an SOE operative – nor your ability to survive under questioning.’
‘No, sir.’ He was doing it again: putting him down.
‘You have more knowledge than you think. Under duress not only would you tell them why you were in France, but before they’d finished with you you’d have told them about Bletchley and how much we know already about their Enigma machine. They think their signalling system is safe because they change the code every day, but with persuasion you would tell them that we are breaking their army and air force codes whenever we want to, and that soon we hope to be breaking their U-boat signals, too.’
He paused, breathing deeply and loudly as if allowing time for his words to be given fullest consideration.
‘So that is why, before you leave, Captain, you will go through your final briefing, be given your codename – Gaston Martin’s codename – and advised where best to hide your pill. And that when you swallow it you will be dead in fifty seconds.
‘I have had grave doubts about sending you, but it is too late now to do anything about it. But of one thing I am sure. You, as an individual, are of little value; what you know is. Never forget that. Good day to you. Good luck.’
Keth stood transfixed, wanting – needing – to yell, ‘Bastard!’ at the top of his voice, wanting to tell him to find some other fool to do his dirty work. But he did not because now there was no going back and anyway, all at once he seemed incapable of speech or movement. All he could be sure of was his love for Daisy and his need to hold her close.
Damn Slab Face! Petulantly he swept the coins from the window-ledge and into his pocket. And in the morning when he left this place, he would not think of Keth Purvis nor his mother, nor Rowangarth. And especially he would not let himself think of Daisy because Gaston Martin was going to France and only when he returned could Keth Purvis be himself again.
‘I love you, Daisy,’ he said out loud. ‘I’ll love you till the day I die.’
Then he thought of the D-pill and wanted to weep as he had not wept since the day his father died, but instead he sucked in his breath and said very slowly and deliberately, ‘Wherever you are, my darling – take care …’
Grace Fielding gave the apple a final polish then laid it carefully on the rack. She knew all about the storage of apples and pears now; had no need to ask instructions. Yet the trouble with grading and wiping and storing fruit for the winter, Gracie frowned, was the time it gave her to brood; think that for three days had there been neither a letter nor phone call from Bas – which was unusual.
The crunch of footsteps on the path sent her hurrying to the door and down the wooden steps of the apple loft to find not Bas, nor Tilda, who had said she would call in for apples, but a tall army sergeant who smiled and said, ‘Afternoon, miss. Can you tell me where I can find Mr Jack Catchpole?’
‘He’s over yonder in the far corner, seeing to the winter chrysanths.’
She pointed to where late-flowering chrysanthemums, grown to bloom at Christmas, were being transferred into pots, ready to be carried into the shelter of a greenhouse at the first sniff of frost on the air. But Catchpole, who missed nothing, was already advancing, garden fork in hand, in the direction of the trespasser.
‘Afternoon, sir.’ The soldier held out a hand which was reluctantly taken. ‘Sergeant Sydney Willis. Would you be the orchid expert I’ve been hearing about?’
Catchpole’s expression softened. He liked being addressed as sir and having his undoubted knowledge in the cultivation and propagation of orchids deferred to.
‘Happen I’m the gentleman you’m looking for.’ He laid aside his fork and reached for his pipe to clamp it, empty, between his teeth. ‘But you wasn’t expected, sergeant,’ he admonished in order to establish that visits to his garden were strictly by appointment.
‘No. I’m sorry, but I took the chance, in passing, of finding you. I was told of your experience with orchids, you see, and –’
‘By who?’
‘By sergeant Tom Dwerryhouse. I was talking to him in the pub. Famous for your orchids, he said, and being a gardener myself I took the liberty of calling. Leeds Corporation Parks and Gardens,’ he added hastily, eager to establish a rapport. ‘Keen to learn more about orchids, they being a favourite of mine.’
Catchpole, mollified, returned his pipe to his pocket, dolefully remarking that he’d clean run out of tobacco, but if the sergeant would care to stay for a sup of tea, his apprentice would soon be making one. At which, Sergeant Willis offered a fill from his own pouch, then settled himself eagerly on the proffered apple box.
‘You have a fine garden, Mr Catchpole. I envy you.’ He gazed with a practised eye at near perfection.
‘’S now’t like it should be. No specialist growing now on account of there being no coke for heating the glasshouses. Time was when I had two under-gardeners and at least three ’prentices.’ His eyes took on a yearning look. ‘But nowt’s the same with two dratted wars to contend with, though my land girl is a grand lass and willing to learn. Had me doubts when Miss Julia landed me with her,’ he murmured through a haze of tobacco smoke, ‘but her’s got the makings of a gardener in her if she don’t go getting herself wed like most females do.’
It was then that Tilda, in search of her apples, appeared by way of the small back gate, eyebrows raised questioningly at the stranger who had inveigled his way into the garden.
‘Now then, Tilda! Gracie’s got your apples. Her’s in the shed, mashing a pot of tea.’
‘Who’s he, then?’ Tilda demanded in a whisper to which Gracie whispered back that he was a gardener, or had been in civvy street, and was here to see the orchid house – she thought. And when she had delivered two mugs of tea she gave Tilda the bag of apples, remarking that as far as she knew the sergeant’s name was Sydney Willis and he came from Leeds.
‘But you’ll stay for a cup, Tilda? The kettle’s almost boiled again. Think I can squeeze a drop more out of this pot. I should have brought those apples to the house, but I was running late this morning,’ she offered when they had settled themselves in the shelter of the now empty tomato house from which there was an uninterrupted view of the two men. ‘And you know what a stickler for time-keeping Mr C is.’
Which wasn’t true, really. She was late this morning, there was no denying it, but only because she had hung around, waiting as long as she dare for the red Post Office van – which hadn’t come, of course.
To which Tilda replied that it was no trouble at all to collect them, it being a nice afternoon and she having time on her hands on account of there being little with which to cook; demanding to know more about the soldier who seemed to be getting on like a house on fire with the crusty head gardener.
‘Don’t
