filled Fred in on the hired woman not showing up.
“Well, how dashed inconvenient. No fear, Mum. I’ll find someone else as soon as possible. If it happens again, you ring up one of us.”
Clara sat on the sofa. “Luke brought us some of his rations.”
“I have no need of them.” In Luke’s new life state, he did not need food to survive. At times he ate for the enjoyment of it and always made sure when in the presence of strangers to make an effort to act as normal as possible, which included the ingestion of food.
“War keeping you busy, Son?” Reed asked, seemingly recovered from his emotional outburst. The doctor told them the sudden change in his emotions was the result of his old age. “They won’t be sending you across enemy lines?”
“No, Dad. I’m not a field operative as such. Agents work under me. As far as I am aware, I’ll be staying at fifty-four Broadway for the foreseeable future.” Fred stood. “I shouldn’t have even said that much. Now, excuse us a moment. Luke and I will get the fire going in the bedroom.”
Reed nodded. “Don’t worry, I can keep it to myself, as this family already has many well-kept secrets.”
Luke followed his nephew into the room and closed the door. With a tsk, Fred ran his finger along the mantel, frowning at the thick blot of dust on the tip. “I may have to find someone to live-in. Mum would never have let the housekeeping deteriorate like this before.”
“Perhaps we should move them back to Charlwood,” Luke suggested.
Fred shook his head. “Can’t be done. Dad is too weak. I already asked the doctor if such a re-location was possible. He advised against it.” He leaned down and placed newspaper and sticks of wood on the grate. “I have a new assignment. We’ve heard chatter the identity of a female agent may be compromised. She was undercover in Germany from nineteen thirty-eight until early nineteen forty. The lady is back in London and works at fifty-four Broadway in an administrative and translator capacity. This brave woman barely escaped with her life, and I would not see her harmed. I will need you to assess the situation. I’ll tell you more once we leave here.” Fred scooped up some coal from the nearby bucket and laid it on the wood and paper. “I have it on good authority Simpson’s-in-the-Strand received an order of mutton from Scotland. I suggest when we are done here, we stop by for an early dinner and I can fill you in on the particulars.”
Luke lit a piece of rolled up newsprint and held it to the wood and paper until the flame caught. A lady spy. An uneasy feeling spread through him, but not in a bad way which concerned him. Tangling himself with a female, whether it was in a professional capacity or not, was not part of his plan.
Chapter 2
There were decided disadvantages to being an ex-spy, Gillian Browning discovered, and the feeling she was constantly being watched sat at the top of the list. It never left her. Today, however, her anxiety level was on high alert.
Probably nothing to it, because of late her nerves were not to be relied on. As she stepped out from the main entrance of the Mile End Tube Station, she glanced around nonchalantly looking for suspicious characters, but found none out of the ordinary. Yet, blending in with a crowd was the hallmark of a good spy. Gillian held her hat tight in case the wind carried it off as she hurried along Aberavon Road to her sister Joan’s small flat.
Piles of bricks from bombed out buildings and sandbags lined the street and made Gillian worry afresh over her sister’s stubborn insistence on staying in this part of London. Though “the Blitz” was over, the German Luftwaffe still bombed London on a steady basis, focusing mainly on the East End where the docks and other transport centers were located.
Despite being sisters, the two of them were not close. When Gillian was eight years of age and Joan six, their parents had divorced. Gillian stayed with her mother, Joan with their father. Her dad moved Joan to the East End where he would be closer to his job as a dock worker, while Gillian’s mother took her to Dover on the east coast of England to live with her grandmother. Years passed. They had no contact whatsoever, as their parents’ break-up was acrimonious.
A letter arrived out of the blue shortly after Gillian turned seventeen. Joan managed to cajole her father into giving up Gillian’s address. Through the years a sporadic correspondence grew between them. It wasn’t until Gillian arrived in London in early 1940 that they met face-to-face. The reunion was awkward, yet they managed to form a mutual respect for each other if nothing else. A good thing, because Gillian was Joan’s only source of income due to the fact the corner shop she’d worked at had been bombed five months ago.
Holding her purse under her arm, Gillian picked up the pace. Not the best of neighborhoods, she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the lingering garbage smell permeating the air around her. Broken crockery and other items littered the street, though not as bad at the height of the Blitz in 1941. Slowly but surely, Eastenders were doing what they could to make the area livable again, though a number of streets had been leveled. Thankfully not Joan’s. Not yet. Working at SIS, Gillian was well aware the war could go on for a few years yet.
It was already late afternoon. She couldn’t stay long since she should return to her own small flat in central London before the sun set. Gillian ran up the stairs to Joan’s second story lodgings. Her sister opened the door before she could even knock. Wearing a pair of gray overalls, Joan had her jet-black hair tied back in a knot. “Wasn’t sure you were coming today.”
Gillian stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. “Are you off somewhere?”
“I’ve recently joined the Woman’s Voluntary Service. Today we will be going around collecting kitchen waste and other items for possible recycle and reuse. I’m taking further nurse’s training as well. I tried to ring you, but the damned lines were down again.”
Removing her hat, she gave her sister a warm smile. “Good for you for joining the WVS.” Gillian opened her purse and handed Joan an envelope. “Here is the money for this month. You know we could save expenses by living together.”
Joan took the envelope and slipped it in the nearby desk drawer. “Thank you, but I can’t leave here, it’s my home. And you can’t leave where you live because it’s close to work. We are managing.” Joan smiled in return. “We will see how it goes. Besides, the bombings are few and far between now. It can’t go on forever.”
Gillian looked about the sparsely furnished but clean parlor. Although they hadn’t had much money, Joan told her she’d been happy here with her father, as he was a good man and took proper care of her. Despite his rough exterior, Joan never lacked for love and affection. It made Gillian a little sad she never visited her father before he died. She remembered he was a handsome, strapping man, about ten years older than their mother.
Joan sat on the sofa and Gillian next to her. “You look lovely, as always,” Joan stated.
Gillian scoffed. “Don’t look too close, my stockings have been darned too many times to count, and there is a patch on the elbow of my coat. As you say, we manage. Not much you can do with clothes rations. Or the food.” She clasped her sister’s hand and held it tightly. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Here now, ducks,” Joan cooed, her East End accent more pronounced than usual. “I’m right as rain. We all stick together here on Aberavon: watch out for each other, sharing what we can, when we can. Why, Mrs. Bartle brought me two slices of mince pie. What a rare treat. I can share it with you if you like.”
Joan
