Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Evelyn
There seemed no escape from the bedlam going on around her; every which way Evelyn turned, somebody was pestering for her advice or opinion.
Right now one of the caterers was complaining that the oven didn’t work. She was a young blonde woman with a waxy complexion and the affected manner of somebody who was used to working in far better surroundings. Well, that wouldn’t be difficult, the kitchen at Meadow Lodge was practically a relic from the last century. Not like those swish kitchens she’d heard about on the new estate in the village. Breakfast bars were all the rage there, along with Formica counter tops and stainless steel sinks. It was a far cry from the antiquated appliances she made do with here – a refrigerator that conducted its own orchestra of hums, rattles and buzzes, a washing machine that leaked, and a moody oven that played up at will.
Pip and Em were constantly on at her to modernise Meadow Lodge, claiming that they might not keep losing the girls who came to clean for them if she did. Gone were the days of obliging and reliable housemaids; now Evelyn had to make do with a turnaround of young married girls from the estate who liked to earn a bit of pin money.
She and Kit could well afford to splash out on new appliances, but the trouble was Evelyn had little time, or inclination, for anything of a domestic nature. She was the sort of person who once she was used to something was resistant to change it. Although she wasn’t bad at fixing things if the situation was dire enough. As it was now.
‘I’m afraid it’s a temperamental beast from the days when Noah was kitting out his ark,’ she explained while on her knees and thrusting a lighted match into the back of the cavernous oven. ‘One of these days I shall get around to replacing it. I think the problem is something to do with the pilot light. There, that’s got it.’
She shut the door carefully. ‘It helps not to slam it,’ she said to the waxy blonde, ‘despite how tempted one might be. And keep an eye on the temperature. The longer it’s switched on, the hotter it gets.’
The woman regarded Evelyn and the oven with a sceptical eye. ‘In that case, I can’t be held responsible if the canapés don’t come out as they should,’ she said primly.
‘I’m sure everything will be absolutely delicious,’ Evelyn replied, seizing her chance to escape so she could go and change.
Parties used to be so much easier to arrange in the old days, and by ‘old days’ she meant during the war. Back then everything was in such short supply people were grateful for whatever they were given. Some of the best parties she had ever attended had been at Bletchley Park. They had been spontaneousget-togethers with just a few bottles of sherry and whisky to share, along with a plate of hastily made sandwiches, provided they could get hold of any bread or fillings. Nowadays expectations were so much higher.
Why, oh why had she agreed to let Kit organise this party? And why was she letting a condescending caterer intimidate her?
It was because she was not herself. Since yesterday afternoon and reading that anonymous letter she had been in shock. Who on earth could have sent it? The handwriting on the envelope was unknown to her, and the only clue she had was that the postmark was Bury St Edmunds. It wasn’t much of a clue though.
She had barely slept the previous night, unable to stop thinking that somebody was out to cause trouble for her. But who? And why? Did the sender of the letter plan to blackmail her? Was that it? Would there be more vile letters?
The worst of it was she didn’t dare share the letter with Kit. If the seed were sown in his mind that Pip and Em weren’t his children, he would never be free of the doubt. He would forever be left to wonder. What man wouldn’t? And Kit was such a worrier.
Their roles had been very clearly defined before they were ever married. Her job had always been to reassure and encourage Kit. Growing up without a mother – and a father who was distant while coping with his grief – had left Kit with a lack ofself-belief and the need to prove himself.
Before he’d gone away to Canada and returned a broken man, she had begun to imagine a future with him, perhaps because she could see how much Kit needed somebody strong like her by his side. Somebody who could guide him towards achieving goals he’d never thought possible. Some might say that had been arrogant of her, but she saw it as her role in life, to inspire others to achieve their dreams. It was why she had become a teacher in the first place.
In his desperately dark periods after returning home to Island House, Kit had pushed Evelyn away, saying he couldn’t bear for her to sacrifice her life for his sake. ‘You could marry any man you wanted,’ he would say to her, ‘why settle for a pathetic crock like me?’
‘Because I love you,’ she’d said.
Whether or not she really had at that time, she couldn’t say with a hundred per cent certainty. Perhaps she had loved him, but had not beeninlove with him. But what she hadn’t doubted was that her feelings for him would strengthen in the years to come, that they would become something truly meaningful and lasting. Moreover, he had needed to know that he was still capable of being loved, and she was the one to prove that to him.
It was during one of Kit’s dark periods that she had been approached to work at Bletchley Park. Feeling it might be good for them to have some time apart, if only so that Kit could come to terms with his situation on his own, she had accepted the post.
Her recruitment had happened so quickly she had scarcely any time to speculate what she was letting herself in for. But from the moment she arrived at Bletchley Park, she realised nothing could have prepared her for what lay ahead.
Chapter Nineteen
Bletchley Park
August 1941
Evelyn
In common with most arrivals at Bletchley Park my first thought was what a hideous house it was. Ahotch-potch of architectural styles, it was, I came to know in the coming days and weeks, a reflection of the varied mix of people who worked there. It wasn’t at all unusual to be chatting with a ladysomeone-or-other in the queue for lunch one day, and a GPO engineer the next. From all walks of life, we had been selected to do one job, to defeat Germany, and in total secrecy. Everyone had to sign the Official Secrets Act on arrival and we all took that oath seriously. Even to this day I have never once spoken of my time at Station X, as Bletchley was known back then.
I was billeted for my first night in a crowded boarding house in the centre of the town. I shared a small room with a girl who snored like a rumbling volcano threatening to erupt and who kept me awake until I shoved my head under the pillow. Although I was tempted to use my pillow to smother her!
The next morning my snoring companion offered to give me a lift on the back of her bicycle to the Park, and so off we went with her pedalling hard while effectively sitting on my lap. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of my small suitcase and handbag, which constituted my worldly possessions.
