44

The women withdrew, a procedure I’d read about in Edward Forster’s books, but hadn’t believed happened. When they were gone, Vaughn rose and suggested the men join him in the study for a snifter. In practice that meant an old duffer wearing his Boer war medals, the red-nosed vicar from across the table, sweating in his dog-collar, Freddie, Vaughn and me. Five men at an event with twice as many women. We’d learnt to live with it since the Great War. And now we were sending the next generation of young men into the same slaughterhouse. Perhaps Vaughn, with his desire for peace, had a point.

In the study, we were treated to a minute-by-minute retelling of the old duffer’s experience in South Africa. Freddie suffered through the story with the lack of grace of a schoolboy being kept after class. He was a curious sort. The type who had clearly never been taught to modify his behaviour to suit his surroundings.

The old duffer was interrupted as the door to the study opened. It was Miriam. She was excited.

‘It’s happening,’ she said.

*

Vaughn hurried us all through the house, shouting as we went.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘if you’ll be so good as to gather your drinks, we’ve got an adventure in the gardens for you.’

‘The gardens?’ an old matron sitting in a cosy spot by the fire complained.

‘Bring your outdoor shoes, and you might want an overcoat if you feel the chill,’ Vaughn said.

It was getting dark outside. Servants bustled about, providing burning torches, lending the affair a medieval, pagan feeling. There was a ripple of excitement in the air, at the prospect of being handed a flame.

‘When does the blackout come in?’ Constance asked, shoving her feet into a pair of muddy boots.

Washington, the butler, emerged from the shadows. He consulted the day’s paper. The Times , of course. The blackout times, start and end, were on the masthead.

‘Fifty-seven minutes’ time,’ he said, as if pronouncing a complicated legal opinion.

‘Plenty of time,’ Vaughn said. ‘Come on!’

We trooped solemnly down the steps at the edge of the terrace, into the ornamental gardens, filled with towering rhododendrons in full bloom. The grassy paths were already damp with dew. The air was heady with jasmine, and bats flew above us in the dark.

Washington brought up the rear, and I dropped back to walk with him.

‘Didn’t have you down as a blackshirt, Cook,’ he said, keeping his voice low.

‘I’m looking for a parachutist,’ I said. ‘Any ideas?’

We slowed our pace, letting the party get ahead of us, until we were alone in the darkness.

‘Not here,’ he said, under his breath.

‘You know what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Not here,’ he repeated.

I stopped in his path.

A twig cracked in the trees, a few yards into the undergrowth. A deer perhaps. Or perhaps someone was keeping an eye on us.

‘I believe it’s a surprise,’ he said, projecting his voice into the darkness. ‘Lord Matheson’s quite excited to show you all. We should hurry.’

We moved on. The path took us onto an ornamental bridge across a waterfall, linking two lakes. The rushing water gave us cover to talk.

‘The Green Man,’ he said. ‘I get off early tomorrow night.’

Footsteps from behind us heralded the arrival of a latecomer. It was Freddie.

‘Come on, Cook, don’t want to miss this,’ he said.

*

We caught up with the party at the far end of the lake. A haze of mist rose from the water. If Excalibur had appeared from the mist, held aloft by a ghostly arm, it wouldn’t have looked out of place.

Margaret found me and slipped her arm into mine.

‘Has it been dreadful?’ she asked.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

A grassy meadow led to the tree line, and we walked through the long grass to an old wire fence, presumably the edge of Vaughn’s property.

‘They put you between those dreadful women. It looked like they were trying to sell you a magazine subscription,’ Margaret said.

‘Gather round!’ Vaughn yelled, and we formed a loose semi-circle around him, with the fence behind him. With our burning torches, it looked like we were about to conduct some kind of sacrifice, or storm the Bastille.

Vaughn looked at his wristwatch.

‘A moment of silence, please!’ he shouted.

The last few murmurers quieted themselves. All eyes were on Vaughn. He looked expectant. He checked his wristwatch again.

There was a nervous titter of laughter.

‘Could have brought some bloody whisky, Vaughn, if we’re traipsing around the country.’ This from Constance.

‘Bear with me,’ Vaughn said.

We waited in the dark, the flaming torches making the only noise as they were gently teased by the wind.

‘ Hier ist Soldatensender Calais ,’ a voice said, unmistakably German. It came from nowhere.

I looked around for the source and saw it: a long, barbed-wire fence behind Vaughn.

Everyone else looked mystified. People muttered to each other: What kind of play was Vaughn putting on? Did he have an actor lurking in the trees? Presumably some kind of hilarious joke. Good old Vaughn. Always game for something.

The voice continued. I didn’t understand the words, but it sounded like an announcement.

‘This is Gustav Siegfried One,’ Kay, my dinner companion, said, taking the role of interpreter. ‘This is the Chief, resuming transmission from Forward Operating Base Delta in Calais, in the territory of the Reich formerly known as France.’

While she spoke, the German voice emerged from the air, seeming to come from all around us. Freddie touched the barbed wire, and the voice disappeared.

‘It’s the fence,’ I said to Miriam, standing next to me. I felt foolish as soon as I said it. She’d told me she was an expert in radio waves and here I was trying to impress her with my rudimentary understanding of the subject.

Freddie took his hand away and the German voice continued, with Kay translating.

‘As we mass on the beaches and the mustering points, ready for the invasion of our weakest neighbour, we know that the Jew-loving Churchill will be quaking in his boots, and our glorious leader is only days from his triumphant master-stroke.’

‘Exactly,’ Miriam said to me. ‘The correct combination of wire length and corrosion. We found it yesterday evening and Vaughn wanted to show it off.’

‘This will be a triumph of the foot-soldier. The tank commander. The U-boat crew member. But as we march down Piccadilly Avenue, we must keep an eye on our rear-guard, on Berlin, where the profiteers and party ...’ Kay seemed lost, her translation faltered.

‘Apparatchiks,’ Margaret interjected.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Kay agreed. ‘Where the profiteers and party apparatchiks operate, those ... leeches who are already syphoning off by all accounts fifty per cent of all funding meant for widows of soldiers, while normal people go hungry in their homes.’

It was good to know that the Germans were having their own problems. The way things were presented in the newsreels, they were unstoppable. This was the first I’d heard about internal issues.

‘Thus, as we lie down to sleep on what might be the eve of our invasion, we ask for your blessing, people of the fatherland, and give you in return our warning – watch your backs, and keep the glorious Leader safe from those around him who look to subvert this historic moment. Signing off for this evening, Gustav Siegfried Eins. I repeat. Gustav Siegfried Eins.’