The Nurse's War. Merryn Allingham
he’s scared. Really scared.’
‘With good reason. The army usually get their man, even if SIS have too much going on to be interested in him any longer.’
‘He’s convinced that someone is going to report him to the authorities.’
Grayson gave a low mutter. ‘Who exactly? Who even knows he’s in London? You won’t bring it out in the open and neither will I, though by rights I should summon the Military Police immediately. I’m sure they’d be more than a little interested in Lieutenant Mortimer.’
‘He’s no longer Mortimer. He’s reverted to being Jack Minns.’
‘Ah, Jack Minns. That sounds about right—returning to the person he really is. He was such a little shit at Hanbury, I should have known what his future would be.’
She had never heard Grayson swear before and her face must have signalled her dismay.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to distress you, but he’s despicable. I wish you’d never met him. He’s brought you nothing but ill fortune.’
She couldn’t disagree. She wished with all her heart that when Gerald had walked into Bridges that day to buy perfume for another woman, one of her disdainful colleagues had stepped forward to serve him. Instead, the job had fallen to her and the moment she’d smiled across the counter at him, her fate had been decided. Was still being decided. And would continue to be decided until she found a way to get Gerald across the Atlantic Ocean. A renewed sense of weariness rolled over her. Confessing her mission to Grayson had taken a toll, and in the end it had been for nothing. He was sympathetic to her, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t help Gerald. He was too angry even to consider the possibility. Her husband would stay in London, a tormenting presence, a time bomb primed to explode at any moment and ruin the small success she’d made of her life.
But should she make a last effort to persuade? ‘Gerald thinks he’s being spied on by the men in the flat below. He’s sure they mean him ill, and he seems more scared of them than of the Military Police.’
‘Scared because he thinks they’re spies?’
She saw Grayson’s smile hover on the edge of sardonic. Then the faintest wail came to them, travelling through and around the hallways, the staircases, the tunnels. At last, the all-clear. A number of people were staggering to their feet, methodically beginning to pack away blankets and pillows and crockery. But the majority of those camped on the platform made no move to leave. It might be better to stay the whole night, she thought, particularly if there were further raids. Who would want to journey back and forth from house to shelter when they could be snatching a few hours’ sleep. Perhaps, too, the solid tunnel walls, the cocoon of blankets, helped to blot out an unwelcome reality, the ever-present fear that there might be nowhere to go back to.
Grayson was already up and pulling her to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back to Barts.’
She had no chance to refuse. He was heading for the exit and towing her behind him, and she could say nothing until the crowded escalator delivered them into the station foyer and from there out into the cold crisp air of an early April evening. They stood together in the darkened street and listened. The all-clear had faded to nothing and the traffic was stilled. There was no drone of planes to disturb the quiet, no roar of the guns that sought them. It was as though a mighty orchestra—planes, guns, sirens—had fallen silent. But not before they’d left behind an indelible imprint: whichever way she looked, the sky was aglow with light, a sweep of glowering fire.
She wriggled her hand free; it was time to regain control. ‘There’s really no need to walk me back, Grayson. It will take you out of your way.’
‘Only a very little. Or had you forgotten that my flat’s in Finsbury?’
She was surprised. ‘You’re still in Spence’s Road?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? Did you think I’d moved back to Pimlico to be with Mummy?’ The mocking note made her smile slightly. He adored his parent but had always been careful to keep his independence.
‘I just wondered. People’s circumstances change so quickly these days.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I haven’t seen you for nine months. You might have got married in the meantime.’ She was grateful for the surrounding dark. He wouldn’t have noticed the flush she’d been unable to prevent.
‘Not guilty. You did a good job on me.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Then don’t try to work it out. I’ve said enough if I tell you the girls I’ve knocked around with these months since you cut me adrift have been just that—girls to knock around with.’
She felt a perverse flood of pleasure. She’d told him to go his own way, hadn’t she, and now she was feeling glad that he hadn’t.
‘So to Barts?’ He offered her his arm.
‘To Charterhouse Square. I don’t have to work this evening.’
They moved off slowly, taking care to avoid the shrouded figures continuing to emerge from the station foyer.
‘So tell me about the evil spies who live below Gerald’s floorboards.’
She couldn’t blame him for not taking it seriously. She found it difficult to accept herself. It was only the fact that Gerald was the least likely person to be haunted by imaginary fears that made her give any credence to what sounded preposterous.
‘You do know that everyone sees spies these days.’ Grayson was enjoying himself. ‘Since the Germans have been camped on the French coast with invasion likely, hysteria has reached danger level. Everyone suspects and everyone is under suspicion. Only last month some poor, benighted foreigner in Kensington was accused of making signals to enemy bombers by smoking a cigar in a strange manner. Apparently, he puffed rather too hard and pointed the cigar towards the sky.’
‘I don’t think Gerald’s spies come into that category.’ Why she was defending her husband’s paranoia she had no idea, except that some deep instinct told her that he could be right.
‘We get hundreds of reports of suspected Fifth Columnists, you know,’ Grayson was saying. ‘Strange marks daubed on telegraph poles, nuns with hairy arms and Hitler tattoos, municipal flowerbeds planted with white flowers to direct planes towards munitions factories. And so on. But in reality there are virtually no enemy agents here.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Let’s just say the Germans don’t have an effective intelligence operation in Britain. Spies should be the least of Gerald’s—sorry, Jack’s—worries.’
‘They’re not Germans. They’re Indians. He heard them speak in Hindi.’
For a moment, Grayson paused in their slow walk. She couldn’t see his face but she was sure it wore an arrested expression. ‘Does that mean something to you?’ she prompted.
‘Not necessarily. But it’s unusual to find two Indians sheltering in the middle of London with a war raging. And particularly unusual at a time like this.’
‘What’s special about now?’
‘You won’t know, but India has recently surfaced again as a hot topic among the great and the good. Germany has been hinting it will guarantee Indian independence if the country doesn’t join us in the fight, and Italy and Japan are likely to take the same view. It’s only a matter of time, I think, before the Axis offer some kind of formal pact to our jewel in the crown.’
‘But isn’t the Indian Army fighting alongside us?’
‘The Indian Army is magnificent, but we’re desperate for men. The war has spread halfway round the world. We need more Indians to volunteer for the fight, just as they did in the Great War. Germany tried to stir up Indian nationalism then, as a way of causing trouble, but now