Under a Wartime Sky Page 4

  After that, father and son took a month-long holiday touring Europe. The only shadow in the seemingly endless sunshine of that summer was the news that his mother, who had originally intended to share it with them, was suffering from some undiagnosed illness that left her weak and unable to travel. There had been no mention of this in her letters, which were still full of delightful and amusing reports about her visitors and observations of the wildlife around the bungalow.

  ‘She’ll be right as rain soon,’ his father promised. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  Cambridge was like a dream, and Vic never quite got over the feeling that he’d somehow landed there by mistake. How could a boy like him end up walking through neatly trimmed gardens bordering the punt-filled river with those gloriously white college towers glimmering in the sunshine on the far bank, or walk into a laboratory filled with all the latest equipment and be invited to work alongside some of the most eminent physicists of the day?

  Halfway into the Michaelmas term, a telegram arrived:

  MOTHER DIED PEACEFULLY IN HER SLEEP YESTERDAY STOP FUNERAL TODAY STOP FATHER

  The shock of it seemed to blind him; he reached for the wall to stop himself falling, and crept his way along it until he reached a chair. He felt physically sick, as though he’d been thumped in the stomach by a flying rugby ball. After an hour or so this receded and he simply felt numb. He just couldn’t take it in, and read the terrible words over again and again. Why had Pa not told him how ill his mother was, so that he could have travelled back to see her before she died?

  As he sat there, her presence seemed to fill the room: her long black hair, unwound from its usual bun and headscarf, hanging down like a waterfall as she leaned to kiss him in his cot, her soft voice and her dark brown eyes always quietly observing, ready to listen with gentle patience, her slim, elegant fingers stroking his head, soothing him to sleep.

  But no, all that was gone; he would never see her again.

  He sat there, barely moving, until the light faded and the bedder knocked on the door, asking to turn down the sheets and whether he wanted cocoa before turning in. Much later, shivering in his bed, he determined to book the first available passage to India in the morning.

  ‘This is certainly very distressing news, Mackensie,’ his tutor said, pouring minuscule glasses of pale sherry. ‘I can understand that you would want to be with your family. But let’s think this plan through. How long does it take, the voyage?’

  ‘Three weeks.’ Alcohol had never been part of Vic’s life, and this was the first he’d taken since the single glass of port at his matriculation dinner. But now the burning of it in his throat felt good and he had to resist the urge to grab the bottle from its silver tray and swig the rest of it.

  ‘Three weeks there, three weeks back, and several weeks in India. You’d miss more than a term’s work, old fellow,’ his tutor went on. ‘I’m afraid we’d probably have to ask you to defer.’

  ‘You mean I’d have to take a year out and start all over again?’

  His tutor nodded.

  It was an impossible choice. How he yearned for India, for the comforting embrace of his old ayah, the warm nights, the birdsong, the smells of incense mingled with the mouth-watering aroma of spices drifting on the still air from the kitchens. More than at any time since he’d left, nearly a decade ago, he felt adrift, uprooted, alone.

  But he had no money to pay for a repeat year.

  Vic hardened his heart, and carried on.

  As his finals approached, he refused to contemplate what might happen next. Although he still longed for India, he now felt entirely British. He’d lived here for more years than in his home country, after all. His tutor said he ‘showed exceptional promise’ and hoped he might apply for a doctorate, but Vic couldn’t imagine how he might support himself through a further two or three years of study.

  He would have to find a job, he supposed, but what could he do? His passion was radio waves. He loved the notion that sounds could fly invisibly through the air, undetectable until they met the human ear or a receiver that could translate them and turn them into beautiful images of waves moving across a screen. Although most people thought radio was just broadcast entertainment, anyone in the know understood the wider potential for wireless telephony between ships and planes. Some had even spoken of interplanetary communications.

  The only place he’d heard of doing work in this field was Marconi in Essex, but it was said that jobs there were ‘like hens’ teeth’, from which he vaguely understood they must be very rare indeed. Unlike some of his better-connected colleagues, he had no network of contacts which might ease his passage into one of these prized positions.

  He passed his finals with a starred first, and to his astonishment the college offered him a bursary – in effect a scholarship for taking his doctorate, along with ten hours a week of associate lectureship, which would pay for his living expenses. ‘We can’t afford to lose a brain like yours, Mackensie,’ his physics tutor told him, giving him the glad news. ‘You have a very bright future ahead of you.’

  Vic spent that summer in Tunbridge Wells, where his father had come to live with an unmarried aunt. Since the death of his wife, Mr Mackensie had found life in India increasingly difficult. Gandhi’s demonstrations, religious riots and the passing of the Government of India Act had left him convinced that it was only a matter of time before the British were thrown out. His lifetime’s investment in the tea plantation could become worthless, he reasoned, so it was better to sell now. It was only once he’d landed on English shores and begun to read the newspapers that he realised there was an even more alarming threat on this side of the world: Hitler and his increasingly aggressive behaviour in Europe.

  They were walking his aunt’s small yappy dog in the nearby park on the South Downs when Vic’s father dropped his bombshell. ‘I suppose if we go to war you’ll have to join up, lad.’

  ‘To fight, you mean?’ Such a notion had honestly never occurred to Vic. ‘I’d be a terrible soldier. You know how cowardly I am; the school even gave me a prize for it.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to do something with that brain of yours to help us fight the Germans, if it comes to it. What about those radio waves you talk about? Can’t you turn them into a death ray or something useful?’

  Vic scoffed. ‘You’ve been reading too much science fiction, Father. To kill even a mouse at five yards would require more power than you could possibly concentrate into a radio wave.’

  ‘All right then, clever clogs. Invent something else that’ll win us the war.’

  The conversation set Vic thinking. Of course, that was what he must do. But how? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. In the early summer of 1936, as he was nearing the end of his second year, there was a knock at his door. It was the college head porter, bearing his usual cryptic expression. ‘The old man wants to see you, now.’

  Such a missive could only be bad news. He hastened across the quad to discover that his tutor had company: the head of the physics department, a tall and flamboyantly moustachioed Nobel Prize winner, and another man he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Ah, Mackensie. Have a sherry.’ He held out a tray with those minuscule glasses. ‘Now, let me introduce you. You know Professor Rutherford?’

  Vic had barely exchanged a single word with the world-renowned nuclear physicist, but the man stepped forward and shook his hand as warmly as though they’d known each other forever.

  ‘Mackensie,’ he boomed. ‘I’ve heard terrific things about your work. You’re a clever chap, they tell me. Which is why we’ve asked you here to meet a fellow Scot of mine . . .’ Vic was so flustered by the unexpected compliments that it took him a moment to register what he said next: ‘This is Robert Watson-Watt, from the National Physics Laboratory.’

  Friendly eyes twinkled behind round-rimmed spectacles. He was neither tall nor especially distinguished-looking, but you could tell from his bearing that this was a man with the tenacity of a bulldog, a
force to be reckoned with.

  ‘So, Mr Mackensie.’ The distinctive roll of the R left you in no doubt of his origins. ‘Which part of Scotland do you hail from?’

  Vic was momentarily thrown. No one had ever assumed he was British, let alone Scottish. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never even been there, sir,’ he managed to mutter. ‘My father came from the Dundee area, I believe, but he went to India in his twenties and I was brought up there.’

  ‘Ach well then, there’s a pity. You’ll have to remedy that soon enough.’

  His tutor invited them to take seats around the fire. Watson-Watt, apparently not a man accustomed to small talk, weighed in immediately. ‘The Professor here tells me you are one of the brightest brains in Cambridge.’

  ‘That is very kind, sir.’ One of the brightest? Vic felt the back of his neck flushing hotly.

  ‘And that you are interested in radio waves?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me more about your work?’

  Vic began to describe the research he was carrying out for his doctorate and what he hoped to prove. Watson-Watt leaned forward in his chair, nodding encouragingly, interrupting every now and again with searching questions. As the conversation progressed Vic felt his excitement rising: this man knew his subject in such depth and such breadth, so much more than anyone else he’d ever met. But why on earth could he be interested in the research of a mere post-graduate?

  At last, Watson-Watt sat back in his chair. ‘Mr Mackensie, you have told me enough to convince me that you are the right man for our team.’

  His team? Vic shook his head, bemused.

  ‘Didn’t they tell you? Well, no, probably not, as I didn’t tell them either. It’s all very hush-hush, you see, and I can’t really say what we’re up to except that I’m looking for a few extra bods for a government project. Particularly physicists. They talk my language. Would you like to join us?’

  ‘My goodness, I am very flattered, sir,’ Vic mumbled, scarcely knowing what he really felt. This was all a bit of a whirlwind, and there were so many unanswered questions. Most of all he was concerned about his students, and the assistants he’d been working with at the lab.

  ‘But just to reassure me,’ Mr Watson-Watt said, ‘I’m sorry to be so personal, but I do have to ask. You are British, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. My father is Scottish, my mother Indian, but I have been in this country nearly a decade now and have a British passport. Since my mother died, my father has returned and now lives in Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘That’s fine, thank you. Have you got any questions? Not that I’ll be able to tell you much, not until you’re cleared for security.’

  ‘Could I stay in Cambridge and continue my research?’

  ‘No, you would have to come and work alongside the rest of us, and I’m afraid that would mean putting your doctorate on hold. But Rutherford here assures me that you can always pick it up again when we’re done.’

  ‘Where will I be moving to?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t say.’

  ‘And how long do you think the project will take?’

  Watson-Watt’s genial expression slipped for the first time. ‘If I knew, laddie, I’d tell you. But no one can predict. It’s in the hands of the politicians, heaven help us. Let’s just call it “for the duration”.’

  It finally dawned on Vic what the man was talking about: the project was ‘war work’. This was perhaps the most exciting and at the same time most terrifying decision of his life, yet he barely hesitated. ‘Then I’m with you, sir. For as long as it takes.’

  ‘Good man, good man.’ Watson-Watt pulled from his pocket a small buff envelope. ‘Welcome to the team. They’ll send you the date for an interview in London, but assuming you aren’t a German spy or an invading Martian, we’ll see you in a few weeks’ time. We’ll enlighten you more when you arrive. I hope that gives you enough time to wrap up here?’

  ‘If that is acceptable . . .’ Vic looked at his tutor and the professor for confirmation. Both were grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Then I look forward to working with you, sir.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, call me Robert, will you? Everyone else does.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vic could hardly wait to reach his room before opening the envelope. When he did so, with heart beating so fast he feared he might faint, he discovered that it held nothing more than a single slip of paper containing an address and rail warrant to a place he’d never heard of: Felixstowe.

  3

  No sooner had Kath begun to tell the stranger where to catch the number six bus than another man bustled up. He had a sly look, a bit like a weasel, she thought, with hair curled tight to his head like wire wool. ‘Are you Mr Mackensie? Have I got the right person?’

  He ignored Kath, even though she was standing right beside him.

  ‘That’s right. I’m Vic Mackensie, pleased to meet you,’ the stranger said, offering his hand, which Weasel-face failed to reciprocate. What a rude man, she thought.

  ‘Frank Wilkinson. Sorry to be late. Bloody ferry had to wait for a bunch of sailing dinghies, of all things! Crazy place. I suppose we’ll get used to it, in time. Come with me.’

  The stranger turned to Kath with an apologetic smile. ‘Looks as though they’ve sent someone to look after me. Goodbye, miss. And thank you all the same.’ He gave a funny little bow and followed Weasel-face, who was already striding out of the station.

  At last Pa appeared, rucksack slung over his shoulder. ‘Hello, kid,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘No teacakes this afternoon, I’m afraid. I’m all done in. Let’s head home.’

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  They began the familiar walk home. ‘Did you see your friend today, Pa?’

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘The one who works at the Orwell?’

  ‘Ah yes, Joe. Thinks he can fix it.’

  ‘Fix it? Really and truly?’ Kath’s mind began to fizz, like sherbet when it hits your tongue. ‘Oh Pa, that’s ace! I’ll have to start making a guest list. How many can I invite? Oh, and I’ll have to get Ma to make me a new dress.’

  She’d been planning to tell him about the stranger and what Charlie the ferryman had said about comings and goings at the Manor, but all other thoughts were forgotten. The Orwell Hotel was the most prestigious in the town, situated right on the corner of the main roads leading to the sea and the town centre. Although Kath had never been inside, she knew people who had, and they all said it was terribly grand. She couldn’t remember having been so excited about anything in months, not even when Billy Bishop had told her she was pretty.

  Grand or not, she knew it was going to be a tall order to persuade Ma. Nothing in their household happened without her say-so – and this time she said no, which threw Kath into a two-day sulk. Even Joan couldn’t snap her out of it. She should have been revising how to solve quadratic equations, but how could she concentrate when her birthday was going to be a washout? And who needed wretched exams anyway?

  In the end, the party at the village hall was a great success. Everyone said so afterwards. Kath had been nearly paralysed with nerves as the evening approached, and the first hour was a bit awkward. But after a while everyone began to dance – boys and girls together – and although some of the lads had hidden a few bottles of cider behind the stage curtains, and some of them were certainly a bit worse for wear, there were no fights.

  Billy Bishop actually came – she’d feared he wouldn’t because he’d been so casual when she’d handed him the invitation – and danced with Kath on and off during the evening. No matter that he didn’t seem to have much conversation except about planes and cars; she’d never felt as proud as she did basking in the attentions of this tall, good-looking eighteen-year-old. She could hardly believe it when he asked her for the last dance. Someone turned down the lights and trained a single spot onto the glitter ball in the centre of the ceiling, transforming the dull li
ttle hall into a place of infinite possibilities.

  Billy held her so close she could feel the heat of his body and afterwards, when everyone else was clearing up, he pulled her behind the stage curtains and kissed her properly on the lips. She wasn’t certain about the tongue thing at first, but after a while it became a bit of a game, like hide and seek, and it made her giggle. That was, until her brother Mark looked behind the curtain and bellowed at them so loudly anyone could hear that if Billy didn’t leave his sister alone, right now, he’d get beaten so hard he’d wish he’d never been born.

  Kath didn’t care. It was her first kiss, and she was definitely in love. She had never felt happier in her life.

  Her good humour was only slightly dented when the exam results came in two days later: while Joan passed them all, Kath only got Geography, Domestic Science and Religious Education. She failed four others, including the all-important English and Maths, which was a bit of a blow after all the help Mark and Pa had given her with revision. That evening, her parents suggested they had a ‘sit down’, which meant a serious chat.

  ‘Now, about these exams,’ Ma started.

  ‘Thank heavens they’re over and I can get out of that place.’

  Pa frowned. ‘And what do you plan to do next, missy, with only three passes to your name?’

  ‘Find a rich man and live in luxury forever.’

  ‘This is serious, Kathleen.’

  Ma chipped in: ‘Of course we hope you will meet the boy of your dreams and live happily ever after, but you’re only sixteen. I can’t have you hanging around the house all day like a wet blanket. You’d soon be bored out of your mind.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get a job.’

  ‘The problem is,’ Pa said, ‘you’re going to need Maths and English certs if you want to do anything more interesting than serving in a shop or washing up in a cafe. And you are perfectly bright enough to get good passes, if you’d only put your mind to it. We think –’ he glanced at Ma – ‘we think you should consider doing some resits so that you can go to college next year.’