V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,49

at the Air Ministry the previous afternoon – a man who had perhaps offered more than he could deliver and rather wished he was back in north London. He stepped to the front door and rang the bell. Almost at once it was opened by an RAF sergeant. ‘Welcome to Mechelen, sir.’ He saluted. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

Kay let the others go in ahead of her. The sergeant was waiting in the dimly lit hall. ‘If you’d leave your case at the bottom of the stairs, ma’am, you can collect it later. There’s a cup of tea and a sandwich waiting on the first floor.’

Evidence of the previous tenants was everywhere – in the mezzotint pictures of Bavarian lakes and mountains that lined the staircase, in the Gothic signs on the doors leading off the first-floor landing – Raucherraum, Esszimmer, Bibliothek. German army announcements and instructions covered a noticeboard. The sergeant noticed Kay examining them.

‘Sorry about that, ma’am.’ He started taking them down. ‘Been meaning to get round to it.’

In the large front room overlooking the street an aircraftman was pouring tea. A tin of evaporated milk stood on a table under the window, next to a pair of plates piled with fish- and meat-paste sandwiches. The two tasted indistinguishable. Kay stood at the window with her teacup and saucer and surveyed the street. On the opposite side, the army lorry had reappeared and was parked outside what looked to be a bank.

‘Now come on, Kay,’ said Joan. ‘You mustn’t hide in the corner. It’s time you met the others.’ She guided her by the arm into the centre of the room. Conversation ceased as five pairs of eyes turned to survey her. ‘This is Joyce Handy … Barbara Colville … Gladys Hepple … Molly Astor … Flora Dewar …’ Kay repeated their names as she shook hands in an effort to anchor them to an individual face. They were all her own age and type – middle-class, well-educated young Englishwomen, apart from Flora who sounded Scottish.

Barbara said, ‘So you’re the girl from Medmenham?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You must be rather special.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘We had to leave Evelyn behind to make room for you.’

So that was why they were so unfriendly. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone else might have to be thrown out of the unit. ‘I’m sorry to hear about that – I didn’t know.’

Flora said mournfully in her Aberdonian brogue, ‘The wee lass was terribly upset. She wasn’t told she wouldn’t be coming until she was about to get on the bus.’

‘Oh dear, the poor thing! How rotten for her.’

Joyce said, ‘Are you a mathematician, Kay?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ve plotted incoming enemy aircraft?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Then I suppose it only goes to show,’ said Barbara, with a smile like broken glass, ‘how important it is to have friends in high places.’ She was irritatingly good-looking, with a model’s cheekbones.

Friends in high places … The innuendo hung in the air. They knew, or at any rate they’d heard a rumour. I must stand my ground, Kay thought, or go under. She said sweetly, ‘Well, Barbara – it is Barbara, isn’t it? – it sounded such a glamorous assignment – fish-paste sandwiches in Belgium in midwinter – that naturally I decided to pull every string I could to make sure I got it.’

A couple of the others laughed. Molly glanced over her shoulder and said quietly, ‘They were rather frightful.’

Barbara frowned. ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best. We don’t all have such refined taste.’

Flight Officer Sitwell came over. ‘Are we getting to know one another?’

Kay, her eyes still fixed on Barbara, said, ‘Yes, ma’am. Very much so.’

‘Well I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have work to do. Leave your cases where they are and follow me.’

They returned their teacups to the table. Sitwell led them out of the room, down the stairs, out into the street and across the wide road. They walked in single file. Like a gaggle of grey geese, thought Kay. A few passers-by stopped to watch them. One elderly woman smiled at Kay, and she smiled back.

The bank, like the house, was nineteenth century, with a facade of heavy grey stone. A soldier guarded the entrance. They followed the flight officer inside and stood on the polished wooden floor in front of the tellers’ counter. It was dusty, the air was stale. It felt as if it hadn’t been used for years.

‘Close the door,’ said Flight Officer Sitwell. She waited until it was done. ‘Right, from now on, every time you