Page 30 of V2

Flight Officer Sitwell was wiping the blackboard clean. When the last of the calculations had been expunged, she turned to face them. ‘We’ll follow the same shift pattern as we do in England. And we’ve arranged you into the following pairs.’ She picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Section Officer Colville and Section Officer Caton-Walsh will take the first watch, starting at oh eight hundred tomorrow morning.’ Kay glanced across at Barbara, but she was staring straight ahead. ‘Section Officers Robinson and Dewar will take the second shift, at fourteen hundred. Section Officers Hepple and Astor will take the third, at twenty hundred hours. And I’m afraid that means Section Officers Handy and Thomas will have the graveyard slot, from oh two hundred to oh eight hundred.

‘If you have any questions, please remain behind. Otherwise, you are free to return to headquarters. There is transport waiting to take you to your billets. You will each be given a small amount of food, which you will take with you and present to the woman of the household. Remember, please, that many civilians in Belgium are close to starving. No doubt you are hungry too, but be tactful, and eat sparingly. By all means take your slide rule and logarithm tables and practise, practise until you can perform these calculations in your sleep. I shall see you all tomorrow.’

The Flanders evening was dark, wet, silent. Kay sat in the front of the jeep, her suitcase and the small box of rations stowed in the back. She had been given a name – Dr Maarten Vermeulen – and an address, with no other details. It was obvious as soon as they left HQ that the driver didn’t know the way. He had a little hand-drawn map, and every so often he would stop and Kay would have to get out and squint up at the unfamiliar street names. They drove through an empty square and across a bridge. A lamp reflected weakly in the black water. Here and there, along a wide, deserted street, a few lights showed behind thick curtains. It was the old central part of town – that much she could make out. The tall, flat-fronted buildings with their patterned brickwork and elaborate windows summoned vague memories of Flemish paintings. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see a nightwatchman with a lantern.

After doubling back a couple of times and passing the same church twice, they entered a cobbled alley with high brick walls on either side into which were set heavy, ancient wooden doors. The silhouettes of houses rose behind them. The driver pulled up, shone his torch on the map and then on the house number and announced they had arrived.

‘Are you sure?’

‘That’s what it says here, ma’am.’

They clambered out of the jeep. He was flustered, in a hurry, muttering that he had other WAAFs to drop off around town. He retrieved her suitcase and the box of food, deposited them on the wet pavement, wished her goodnight and drove away. She looked around. She had no idea where she was, let alone how to find her way back to the bank the next morning. For the first time, she felt a twist of panic, which she at once suppressed. As dangers went, it hardly ranked with flying alone eight miles above Berlin. She turned the metal ring of the gate handle, picked up her suitcase, tucked the cardboard box under her arm and put her shoulder to the wood. The hinges squeaked and gave reluctantly.

A path of worn stones led across a small muddy garden to a front door. She rang the bell and stepped back to look up at the tall house. A crack of yellow light shone from a window on an upper floor, quickly extinguished as the curtain was closed. After a minute she heard a shuffle of feet on the other side of the door, the sound of bolts being drawn back, a key turned. It opened part way. One side of an elderly male face peered out at her over the door chain.

‘Dr Vermeulen?’

‘Ja?’

‘I’m Section Officer Angelica Caton-Walsh of the British Royal Air Force.’

A single rheumy eye rolled in exasperation, exposing yellow whites. He said something angrily in Flemish.

Kay said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Je ne parle pas anglais!’

‘Peut-on parler français?’

He gave a reluctant grunt. ‘Oui.’

For the second time that day, the teaching nuns of Our Lady’s came to her aid. ‘Je suis l’officier de section Angelica Caton-Walsh de la force aérienne britannique. Vous m’attendez?’

He scrutinised her face, looked at the box of food and then at her again. ‘J’ai dit à l’officier anglais: non!’

I told the English officer: no. ‘Did you indeed,’ she muttered under her breath. She was starting to lose her temper, standing in the rain. She gestured to the sky. ‘Je suis désolé,’ she said firmly, ‘mais je suis ici!’

He glared at her for a few more seconds, then sighed, unfastened the chain and opened the door.

The hall reminded her of her grandmother’s house – a black-and-white tiled floor with a threadbare rug, heavy wooden furniture, a dinner gong, a metal crucifix, pictures of saints and various embroidered religious texts around the walls, the tick of a long-case clock, and an obscure smell of something … not dead exactly, but mouldy, ancient, of another time. It was colder than it had been in the jeep. She put down her suitcase but kept hold of the box of food.

Dr Vermeulen closed the door and locked and bolted it. He was bald and bony, sixty-something, with liver spots on his hands and skull. A bottle-green cardigan hung loosely from his sloping shoulders. He called up the stairs, ‘Amandine!’

The wooden boards creaked and at once a woman began to descend. She must have been listening from the landing, dressed as if she was about to go out, in thick shoes and a dark coat. Her grey hair was cut in a mannish helmet. She inspected Kay through wire-framed spectacles. Vermeulen said something to her in Flemish, then turned to Kay and shrugged: ‘Ma femme.’

Kay held out the food. ‘This is for you,’ she said in French. ‘I am sorry for the imposition.’

The woman took the carton and peered down into it. She looked up with a slightly friendlier expression and replied, also in French, ‘You had better come into the warm.’

Kay followed them past the ticking clock and into the kitchen. Dr Vermeulen’s slippers slapped against the flagstone floor.

A big dresser was filled with blue-and-white china. Two high-backed wooden chairs with cushions and blankets were drawn up in front of an iron stove. On the table was a pile of old cloth-bound books and some woollen socks that were being darned. Mrs Vermeulen pushed the sewing out of the way and set down the box. She began taking out the contents and examining them with an expression of wonder. Two red tins of Fray Bentos corned beef. An army-ration tin of meat and vegetable stew. A packet of tea. Three rashers of bacon wrapped in greaseproof paper. A tin of condensed milk. A small loaf. An egg box. A slab of chocolate. She lined them up carefully as if they were pieces of treasure. She opened the egg box to reveal three small white eggs and showed them wordlessly to her husband.

‘It isn’t much,’ said Kay. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Vous êtes très gentil,’ said Dr Vermeulen. He looked forlorn. ‘Forgive us,’ he said suddenly in English. ‘We told them we would prefer not to take you. My wife has – how do you say it?’ He tapped his heart. ‘Angine.’

‘Angina?’