Heronfield Page 8

  "It is." There was a pause. “Tony, you must realise that no-one, including your family, is to know about this at this stage. Do you understand?"

  A frown furrowed Tony's brow.

  "Yes, I understand. But why? What is it that you people get up to, Jim?"

  "I can't tell you that. Mr. Jones will explain if he thinks you are suitable; if not then you’ll never know. I can't say precisely how long the process will take, but if I were you I’d make arrangements to be in London for about a week. Any questions?"

  Tony laughed. "Hundreds, but I'm sure you won't answer them! Will I see you when I'm in town?"

  "Sorry Tony, not this time. I have to go away on a training course, but I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

  "All right Jim, I'll be there. And thanks for calling."

  "Good luck, Tony. I hope it all works out."

  The phone went dead and Tony put the receiver down, the light of anticipation in his eyes.

  The family were seated around the table as the one remaining servant entered with a small roast chicken. The rest of the help had joined up, and the family were doing their best to take on some domestic chores themselves. As Sir Michael said, ‘we can all do our bit, even if it’s just the washing up!’

  He sipped his wine and sighed. “We’d better be careful with this. Who knows when we’ll be able to re-stock the cellar again?”

  Tony grinned. “I’ll pick you up some wine while I’m in London if you like.”

  “I was thinking more of when we shall next get wine from France.” His father looked across at him, a quizzical expression on his face. “When are you planning to go up to town?”

  “Tomorrow.” Tony reached across for the potatoes.

  “What for? Are you enlisting at last?”

  “Er…well…not exactly.” Tony was at a loss as to what to say. Jim had asked him to say nothing about his meeting and what it entailed, although he knew little enough himself, and he knew just how much his father wanted to see him join up and ‘do his bit’. “I’m just going to meet up with a few university friends before we all join up and go our separate ways,” he said, hoping his father would not detect the lie in his voice.

  “What? You mean you’re going to London to meet up with your friends and have some fun?”

  Tony recognised the confrontational tone in his father’s voice but could do little to ease the tension. He had told the lie and now he must live with it. He nodded reluctantly.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” His voice was subdued as he looked down at his plate. “Once we join up we could be sent all over the place. We may never see each other again; some of us may not come back from this war. I think we have a right to have one final outing together.” He hated lying, but he had to tell his father something.

  “And will you enlist while you’re there? You should have plenty of time for that too, you know.”

  Louise looked across at her husband, recognising the rising anger in his tone, and tried to mollify him.

  “Come on now, Michael, you know that Tony will join up eventually. Give him this one last piece of freedom.”

  “One last bit of freedom? When I was younger than he is now I was fighting so that he could have this freedom, and many of my friends died so that he could go up to London for a bit of fun. Now all over the country other people are preparing to fight, and to die, for this country. All I want to know is when he thinks he’ll have the courage to do his bit. Is that too much to ask?”

  Tony looked his father in the eye.

  “No, it’s not too much to ask. I will join up and I will fight in this war, but I have to do this first. You lost friends, surely you understand the need to say goodbye?”

  “Of course I do, but I also understand the need to stand up and be counted.”

  “Are you calling me a coward, Dad?”

  Sir Michael was silent. The red flush in his cheeks began to subside, and he sighed. At last he spoke.

  “No, of course not Tony. I suppose part of it is that I want to join up and do my bit myself. But I’m too old, and I can’t understand why you won’t go in my place.”

  “I will, Dad. Just give me time. You do trust me, don’t you?” Tony desperately wanted to tell his father about Jim’s call and the meeting that he would be attending in London but it was impossible. He had promised. He felt a gnawing anxiety that this impending interview might somehow sour his relationship with his father, but he didn’t know how or what to do about it.

  Sir Michael frowned.

  “I’ve never had any reason not to trust you son. But I can’t say I like this. I shan’t be happy until I see you in uniform.”

  “Are you so eager to send him into danger?”

  Sir Michael looked across at his wife.

  “No, of course not my dear. But it’s a matter of duty.” He looked across at his youngest son. “I thought you would understand that Tony.”

  Tony lowered his eyes to his plate once more.

  “Yes Dad. I won’t let you down.”

  The rest of the meal was conducted in a frosty atmosphere. Unable to say anything about his secret meeting, Tony had remained silent, replaying his father’s angry words over and over again in his mind. His heart was heavy. Sir Michael’s words had cut him deeply, and for the first time in his life Tony had felt that he was a disappointment to those he loved the most. Somehow, he did not know how, he would show his father that he knew the meaning of duty, and was as prepared to lay down his life for his country as the next man.

  How he longed for the meeting, and the secrecy, to be over.

  Tony walked down the drive with his small suitcase in his hand his. His eagerness at finally making some headway towards enlisting was tempered with sadness as he thought of the words which had been spoken over dinner the night before. He wanted to make his father feel proud. He knew that once he joined up he would do so, but for now his father was feeling angry and frustrated, and there was nothing that Tony could do about it.

  As he looked back over his shoulder he saw Sir Michael watching him silently through the drawing room window as he began his journey, though it was obvious from the sullen expression on his father’s face that his opinion of his younger son had not changed overnight. As far as he knew, this Jim Briggs whom Tony had spoken about had never been in touch, and Sir Michael was beginning to think that his youngest son was using the expected telephone call as an excuse to keep out of the fighting. As he looked at his father Tony longed for the chance to explain where he was really going. Still, come what may, he would be a member of the armed forces by the end of the week, either with the people he was to see the following day or in some other capacity, and the domestic friction would be over at last. With a sigh he turned his back on his home and set off for London.

  Tony checked into the Northumberland Hotel, just behind the War Office, early that evening, and after eating a dinner somewhat below the usual standard for the hotel, no doubt due to the rationing, he went for a brief and depressing walk through the blacked out streets of London. Returning to the hotel, he retired early to bed, but he could not sleep with his mind a whirling jumble of thoughts about what the morrow might bring.

  As the hands of his watch reached 10.30 the following morning, Tony raised his hand and knocked at the door to Room 34. It looked the same as all of the other doors in the hotel, so he was not prepared for what greeted his eyes when the door was opened. The room was completely bare, its only furnishings two folding chairs, a naked bulb and a blackout curtain. One of the chairs was occupied by a middle-aged man, wearing civilian clothing but with the unmistakable air of the military about him.

  "Anthony Kemshall?"

  Tony nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Come in then, and close the door." The man indicated the other seat. "Please sit down, Mr. Kemshall."

  Tony sat down, eager to find out what it was all about.

  "You met a Lieutenant Briggs in Northern France during the evacuation. Is that not so?"

  Tony nodd
ed. "Yes, sir."

  "He spoke very highly of you. It seems you handled yourself very well."

  "Thank you."

  "Parlez vous francais?"

  Tony was startled to hear the man he had come to see speaking such fluent French, with a distinctly Parisian accent.

  "Oui, Monsieur."

  “Then we shall continue our conversation in French, if you don’t mind?”

  Tony shook his head, and from then on the conversation was carried out in French.

  “How is it that you speak French so well?”

  “My mother is French. She met and married my father during the last war. We spent a good part of each summer at Grandmamma’s estate just outside Saint Nazaire. I learnt to speak French there.”

  “And your accent is that of the area?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe I could pass for a native.”

  “Do you know the area well?”

  Tony thought of the lazy summer days he and David had spent exploring his grandmother’s estate, and the nearby port in the company of her estate manager. Places which were now occupied by the Germans. Places he thought of as his second home. “Yes. I know the area well.”

  “And what do you do when not holidaying in France?”

  “I’m at university. When I graduate, I intend to go into my father’s engineering business.”

  The officer nodded slowly. “An admirable ambition. But what about Dunkirk?”

  Tony was not surprised by the sudden change of direction. After all, this was the purpose of his visit.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “How did you manage to get involved with the army?”

  “I went to Saint Nazaire to bring Grandmamma to safety in England, but once I had got her on board a ship I decided to stay and see some action.” He smiled grimly. “It wasn’t what I was expecting. Nothing like my preconceived ideas of war. Seeing the Germans murder innocent civilians, women and children. There was really no option but to get involved and help Lieutenant Briggs.”

  “You could have turned and walked away.”

  Tony shook his head. “The thought never entered my head.”

  “Lieutenant Briggs said that you took part in an attack on some tanks. How did that happen?”

  Tony’s mind flew back to France and he closed his eyes for a second as he relived the scene, then he looked at his companion as he began to speak, trying to explain what had happened and how he had felt. His feelings threatened to overwhelm him as he recalled his experiences in France – the strafing and bombing, the violence and death, fear, hunger, exhaustion. The officer watched the emotions play across the young man’s face as he recounted his experiences, but said nothing to interrupt the flow of recollections as Tony recounted the attack on the tanks.

  “So how did you feel after your first action?”

  Tony struggled to find words to express the mixed emotions he had felt. “Elated. Scared. Exhausted. It’s hard to say really.”

  “It didn’t put you off joining up?”

  Tony’s face was grim. “On the contrary. I was more determined than ever. After what happened to Watson, to the civilians, to the men on the beaches.” He closed his eyes as though to escape the sight, but the images still haunted his mind.

  “And after the tank attack?”

  Tony opened his eyes and looked at the officer. He took a deep breath.

  “That was it really. From there we began to make our way towards Dunkirk.”

  “What have you been doing since?”

  “I wanted to join up, but I was waiting for a call from Jim, to see what he could come up with.”

  “Your first taste of action didn’t put you off the army?”

  Tony was incensed.

  “No! Of course not!” His face was grim. “It may seem strange as I haven’t joined up yet, but that would have felt like disloyalty to Jim and the others.” His eyes took on a faraway gleam as he thought of his time in northern France. “The attack on the tanks was frightening, but the beaches of Dunkirk were the worst part. The waiting. The attacking planes. The cold and hunger. But it only made me more determined to do my bit as they say.” He gazed thoughtfully at the officer. “If you’d seen what I saw, especially the strafing of civilian refugees, you would understand. I’m determined to do everything in my power to help defeat the Nazis.”

  He sat looking at his companion for a moment, wondering what his role was in the scheme of things. "May I ask a question?" he ventured at last. At the other’s nod of approval, he continued. "What’s this all about? Jim, I mean Lieutenant Briggs, said it was something to do with the military. You've checked out my French, so I assume that must be important. I just want to say that I have no intention of spending the war sitting behind a desk translating. After what I’ve been through, I want to see some action. Can you guarantee that?"

  His companion smiled.

  "I can’t tell you what the job involves at present, as I need to check out one or two things about your background first."

  Tony frowned, but said nothing as the other man continued.

  "That’s all for now Mr. Kemshall. If you could be here again at 10.30 three days from now I would be most obliged." He stood up as he spoke and held out his hand. "Goodbye Mr. Kemshall, and please say nothing of this conversation to anyone."

  Tony shook the proffered hand and left, more deeply puzzled than he had been when he arrived in Room 34.

  Tony spent the next three days in a kind of limbo. There was no need for him to be in London other than for the unusual interview. He had no work to do and no people to see, so he spent his time walking and absorbing the strange sights of a city at war. Barrage balloons floated overhead like the huge bloated carcasses of dead whales, the muzzles of anti-aircraft guns pointed menacingly at the cloudless blue of the July sky, signs directed the way to air-raid shelters, and there were men in uniform everywhere. After his first evening in the city he decided not to venture out of the hotel at night again. His memories of London after dark consisted of bright lights and laughter, not the dark brooding of a city under blackout and awaiting the next move from an enemy poised to strike. He supposed he would get used to it all if he had to live and work in London, but he preferred the peace of Heronfield; even with the influx of nurses and wounded soldiers, its isolation from the big cities encouraged the aura of peace and tranquility in which he had grown up.

  Tony was glad when the three days of endless waiting were finally over, and he found himself seated once again opposite the mysterious 'Mr. Jones' who had now forsaken his civilian clothes for the uniform of a major. Room 34 was as bare as it had been before.

  "Mr. Kemshall, I'm sure you're wondering what this is all about."

  Tony nodded at the uniformed officer. "Yes, sir."

  "Well, since our last meeting I have had your background carefully checked by members of the Intelligence Service and am pleased to say that you came out of it all without a blemish."

  "Did you expect anything else, sir?"

  The officer noted the disapproval in Tony's voice and smiled thinly.

  "I know that you find it disturbing that we’ve checked up on you like this, but don't forget that we’re at war. We can’t be too careful about choosing the people we recruit."

  Tony nodded.

  "Yes sir. I understand."

  "Good. Now let's get down to business. As you are well aware, we no longer have any armed forces in France, and if we are to defeat Hitler it is in France that we must work. The only way we’ll be able to do this for the foreseeable future is to send men, undercover, to France to try to organise some sort of resistance. It goes without saying that it will be a dangerous undertaking, and we are liable to lose many of our agents, but that is the nature of war."

  Tony's thoughts were racing, leading him to a conclusion that he thought was surely impossible. The officer smiled.

  "I see that you have grasped what this is all about. We’d like you to work for us in Occupied France. You spe
ak French like a native, and have detailed knowledge of Saint Nazaire and the surrounding area. You are also known to a number of locals, which will give you a head start in any work you have to do." He held up a hand to silence Tony who seemed about to speak. "I don't want you to make up your mind too easily," he continued. "It is a difficult decision to make. It's a life and death decision for both of us. I have to decide whether I can risk your life, and you have to decide whether you are willing to risk it too."

  "I understand, sir."

  "I'm not sure that you do, Kemshall. This operation is Top Secret. No one, and that includes family and friends, is to know about our approach to you. You must make the decision alone, bearing in mind that there’s no more than a fifty-fifty chance that you will come out of this alive."

  “Can’t you do an intelligence check on my family? They would come out clear, and it would be so much easier for me if I were able to discuss this with them.” Tony frowned slightly. “My father won’t understand if I’m not seen to be in active service. It could prove…difficult.”

  “I know. But it’s something that all agents must face. I don’t doubt that your family would prove to be perfectly safe if we were to check them out, but that’s not the point. Secrecy is vital for your safety, and the safety of hundreds of other operatives. If your family know about you, they could let something slip when talking to friends, with catastrophic results. I’m afraid that the decision has to be yours alone. And if you choose to join us, you may not speak to your family about your work until after the war, if at all.”

  Tony nodded, reluctantly accepting the logic of the argument, as the officer rose to his feet and offered him his hand once again.

  "I'll see you again in two days’ time, Mr. Kemshall. And I'll want your decision then."

  Tony stared out of the window, without seeing the beautiful gardens of Heronfield spreading out before him. He had spent two days thinking endlessly of the proposition that had been put to him, barely able to believe that his country placed so much trust in him. He knew the dangers involved, he was aware of the fact that if he joined he probably would not live to see the end of the war, yet he found that there was no decision to be made. He knew that he would go, and had been proud to say so to the mysterious 'Mr. Jones' at their final meeting. Once his decision had been accepted by the authorities, he had been given the rank of lieutenant in the Ministry of Economic Warfare, to counter any suggestions that he was not 'doing his bit' for England. Yet he knew that this would not please Sir Michael, who would want to see him out there, fighting for his country. The decision to become an agent in France had been easy in comparison with the confrontation which Tony would now have to face with his father. As if on cue, the door opened and Sir Michael entered.