Windflower Wedding

‘Exactly. That’s the whole crux of the matter. Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht codes are little problem, or so I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the naval codes – well, we can gather in their signals with no trouble at all. What is so annoying is that they chatter all over the Atlantic airwaves – especially the U-boats – and there’s damn-all we can do about it. Can’t break ’em.’

‘We can, sir, but most often it’s too late.’

‘Far too late for our convoys, yes. We’re losing one merchant ship in every four that crosses the Atlantic and it’s got to stop. It’s immoral!’

‘So I’m to be part of an operation that’s going to get hold of an Enigma machine the German Navy uses?’

‘Yes. But don’t get butterflies, Purvis.’

‘I’ve already got them and they’re wearing clogs!’

‘Then don’t worry – at least not too much – because we think we’ve managed to get hold of one. Don’t ask me how or where. One thing we don’t do is expect our radio operators over there to transmit long-winded messages. But the information this far is that one is ready for collecting. That’s why we need someone like you to check it over and bring it back. I take it you’d know what you were looking for?’

‘No. But I’m familiar with the ones their Army and Air Force use, so I reckon I’d spot anything different.’

‘Then that’s all we ask. Churchill would give a lot to break the U-boats’ codes. We can’t go on losing ships the way we are, nor the men who crew them.’

Keth agreed, then asked, ‘So you don’t know the exact location of the machine?’

‘Only approximately. Like I said, our wireless ops in the field don’t waste time on claptrap. They set up their sets, hook up their aerials and make their transmissions as fast as they can. The Krauts have got special detector units and they like getting hold of one of our men – or women. That’s why our lot don’t go round like Robin Hood and his Merry Men. They’re mostly loners. The fewer operators they know, the better. You’ll rely on your contact and trust him, or her. Your contact will tell you only as much as you need to know, so don’t ask questions, or names, because you won’t be told. I understand,’ the older man chuckled, ‘that you asked a lot of questions at Castle McLeish.’

‘I suppose I did, but I’m learning.’ Keth tilted his glass again. ‘Can I ask when I’ll be going?’

‘In about forty-eight hours.’

It was, Keth supposed, like going to have a tooth filled, only worse. He drained his glass then got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’m ready for bed now.’

‘Yes. Off with you. By the way, you don’t usually hit the bottle, do you?’

‘Hardly ever. But on this occasion, it has helped calm the butterflies. Good night, sir.’

‘’Night, Purvis.’ The elderly man watched him walk carefully to the door, relieved to find himself thinking that the young officer, inexperienced though he was, would fit the bill nicely. Strangely dark, he brooded. Black hair, black eyes. Gypsy blood, perhaps?

‘Purvis!’ he called.

‘Sir?’ Keth’s face reappeared round the door.

‘Any didicoy blood in you?’

‘No,’ Keth grinned. ‘My mother was a Pendennis. Cornish. They’re a dark people.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Didn’t take offence easily, either. And no matter what they’d said about him at Castle McLeish, he liked him. Purvis should do all right – as well as the next man, that was …

Grace Fielding was picking the last of the late-fruiting raspberries when a tall shadow fell down the rows. Without turning she said, ‘Hullo, Bas Sutton.’

‘Hi, Gracie. Marry me?’

She put down her basket and turned impatiently.

‘No, I won’t – thank you. And you always say that!’

‘Can you blame me when you always say no?’ He tilted her chin, then kissed her mouth.

‘And you can stop that in working hours!’ He always did it and in public, too! ‘Mr Catchpole’s going to catch you one day and you’ll be in trouble!’

‘No I won’t. I’ve just seen him – given him some tobacco. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t sitting on his apple box right now, puffing away without a care in the world.’

‘You’re devious, Bas Sutton, and shameless.’ She clasped her arms round his neck, offering her mouth because even if Mr Catchpole were not sitting on his box, smoking contentedly, the raspberry canes hid them. And she did like it when he kissed her, and she wanted nothing more than to say yes, she would marry him; would have said it, except for just one thing. Her sort and Bas Sutton’s sort didn’t mix. Not that she was ashamed of her ordinariness. She was what she was because of it and she loved her parents and her grandfather. She even loved Rochdale, though not quite as much as Rowangarth.

Rowangarth. Bas was sprung from the Rowangarth Suttons – the Garth Suttons, Mr Catchpole called them. His grandfather Edward Sutton had been born at Rowangarth, even though he married into Pendenys. And the Pendenys Suttons had the brass, she had learned, and one day Bas would inherit that great house – or was it a castle? – simply because his Uncle Nathan, who owned it now, had no children and in the natural order of things, the buck would stop at Sebastian Sutton – or so Bas once said.

But even if Bas refused Pendenys, he’d be rich in his own right because one day he would inherit one of the most prosperous and prestigious studs in Kentucky, while Gracie Fielding lived in a red-brick council house and would inherit nothing except her mother’s engagement ring. And the silver-plated teapot that had come to her from a maiden aunt.

‘What are you thinking about? You were staring at that weather cock as if you expected it to take off.’

‘I – oh, I was thinking it’s time for Mr Catchpole’s tea so you’d better kiss me just once more, then you can stay here and finish picking this row till I call you. And don’t squash them. They’re for the house, for dessert tonight, and Tilda Tewk doesn’t like squashy fruit!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He kissed her gently, then whispered, ‘I love you, Gracie.’

He always told her he loved her because one day she would let slip her guard and say she loved him too. One day. And when it happened, he would throw his cap in the air, climb to the top of Holdenby Pike and shout it out to the whole Riding!

‘I’m sure you do, Bas Sutton,’ she said primly. ‘But in the meantime get on with picking those rasps!’

‘You’re not interested in the candies I’ve brought you, or the silk stockings or the lipstick, then?’

‘Pick!’ she ordered, then laughing she left him to find Jack Catchpole, who was puffing contentedly on a well-filled pipe.

‘I’ve come to make the tea,’ she said. ‘Bas is carrying on with the picking.’

‘Ar. He’s a right grand lad, tha’ knows.’

‘I’m sure he is, but that’s between me and Bas, isn’t it, and nobody else!’

She stopped, horrified at her cheek, her daring, but Mr Catchpole continued with his contented puffing and his wheezy chuckling and didn’t take offence at all. Because he knew what the outcome of it all would be, despite the lass’s protestations. He’d said as much to Lily.

‘Mark my words, missus, young Bas isn’t going to take no for an answer. Things alus happens in threes and there’ll be three weddings round these parts, mark my words if there isn’t.’

And in the meantime, may heaven bless and protect GIs who brought tins of tobacco every time they came courting his land girl!

‘Make sure it runs to three mugs, Gracie lass,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And make sure I get the strongest!’

Life on an mid-September afternoon could be very pleasant, be danged if it couldn’t – even if there was a war on!