1
19th December 1941, The Entertainment Hall, Hursley Park
The Hursley Players’ production of Hay Fever received a standing ovation. From the wings, Sarah Gillespie and her fellow backstage assistant Vera Taylor, watched the cast taking their bows. It was Friday night and the last performance. Thankfully, the play had gone off with very few hitches, to the relief of all, after a less than satisfactory opening night earlier in the week.
Sarah nudged Vera and flicked a glance at Richard, the director, who was pacing up and down the corridor to the side of their makeshift stage, muttering under his breath.
‘I don’t think he’s happy,’ she whispered.
Vera snorted. ‘He never is! But do you think Mr Coward would approve of that performance?’
‘Let’s not push our luck!’ Sarah replied with a grin. ‘But to be fair, they did far better than I’d hoped after Wednesday’s fiasco.’
‘Yes, though how Sylvia forgot her line again, I’ll never know. She only had one.’
Richard appeared beside them, hands stuck in his pockets, and a scowl on his face, which did not bode well. ‘I could wring her stupid neck. Bloody amateur!’
Vera and Sarah shared an amused glance. Richard sported rather grand ideas about his abilities and those of his actors.
‘It was just nerves, Richard,’ Sarah said to him, but his only answer was a grunt before he slouched off to resume his pacing.
‘My God, you’d think we were on the West End the way he behaves,’ Vera said with a roll of her eyes. ‘I’ve had enough of the histrionics. I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Sarah replied, watching her cousin Martin take yet another bow. He was lapping it all up. But he deserved it; Martin had outshone the rest of the cast, in her opinion. She could see Uncle Tom and Aunt Alice in the front row, her aunt beaming up at Martin.
Vera linked Sarah’s arm. ‘Let us await the thespians in the changing room. They will, of course, be full of themselves, but I suppose that is the lot of us lowly backstage slaves. We do all the hard work but get little credit.’
‘Yes, but at least our names appeared on the programme,’ Sarah replied.
Vera sniffed. ‘Yes, at the bottom of the last page!’
‘I guess our dreams of Hollywood must wait.’
‘Speaking of travel, I hear you’re off to London soon. I’ll miss you,’ Vera said with a wave of her hand. ‘This has been fun.’
‘Yep. I leave straight after Christmas, but I don’t intend being away too long, Vera. Hopefully only a few weeks.’
‘But you will miss the auditions for our next spectacular. Martin told me how disappointed you were not to be on stage for this one.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ Sarah said with a shrug as they entered the dressing room.
There was the small matter of finding her renegade father for MI5, but that wasn’t something she could share with Vera, or even her family. Only her manager in Supermarine, Miss Whitaker, a fellow MI5 agent, knew about her upcoming mission. Sarah knew her aunt and uncle would try to talk her out of it if she were to tell them what a dangerous path lay ahead. To them, Jim Gillespie was dead, supposedly killed by the same bomb that had killed Sarah’s sister, Maura, and destroyed their home. It was best they believed that to be true. Only Sarah knew what had really happened, that Jim was alive and well, heading up an IRA cell in England and collaborating with fifth columnists. She could not bear to think of her father escaping justice. He had questions to answer – to the authorities, and to her.
Ever since Colonel Everleigh, the head of MI5, had first told her the truth about her father, her mind had been in turmoil. With her grief for her sister, Maura, still raw, to learn that their father had abandoned them to their fate made her livid. Revenge was foremost in her thoughts. Soon enough, she would have the opportunity to put things right, but for now, to be part of the production team for the play had been a welcome distraction. After an eventful couple of months, she certainly needed that. She was lucky to be alive after that awful day in Winchester when a Nazi had nearly succeeded in killing her.
The girls sat down to wait for the cast. Vera produced an apple and offered Sarah a bite. She declined. ‘Such a pity Paul can’t come down here for Christmas,’ Vera remarked between mouthfuls.
The reminder was unwelcome. It had been quite a blow to receive her boyfriend’s hastily written letter with news of his imminent departure for America. Worst of all, their plans to spend a few days in London after Christmas were in tatters. She was desperate to see him; desperate for him to know her true feelings. Their recent reconciliation had only been by letter. Not ideal!
‘Yes. I was gutted. It would have been lovely to see him before he left for the States,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve only met him once since we both came to England. His flight training was up in Yorkshire.’
‘What rotten luck! Where is he going exactly?’ Vera asked, her eyes full of sympathy, which almost brought tears to Sarah’s eyes.
‘Alabama; for further training. Just my luck,’ she said with a gulp, ‘but he has to go where the RAF dictate.’
Vera raised a brow. ‘One of the fly boys, that’s impressive. How long will he be there?’
However, before Sarah could answer, the cast trickled in, two of the male actors leading the way.
‘Thank God that was the last performance. I could murder a pint!’ said one.
‘Ha! Just like you murdered those lines, Angus!’ said the other, giving him the side-eye.
Angus squared up to him. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Now, lads, take it easy. Richard is on his way.’ It was Martin, standing in the doorway, shaking his head at the two men who were eyeing each other up. ‘Everyone did just fine, tonight. And, Angus, I’ll take you up on that idea of a pint.’
Angus shrugged and turned away. Sarah smiled at her cousin. He had a knack for defusing tricky situations. ‘Yes, do hurry up, lads; us ladies are parched!’ she said.
Sarah’s alarm clock rattled into life, and she awoke to a pounding headache. That will teach me to carouse with Vera Taylor. With a groan and her eyes still closed, she slapped down on the bell and savoured the blissful silence of the sleeping house. Twenty minutes later, she woke up again, spotted the time and leapt out of bed.
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ she muttered as she dragged on her clothes. Why on earth had she agreed to meet Vera so early for the clean-up? With a glance in the mirror, which made her cringe, she pulled a brush through her hair before galloping down the stairs.
‘Morning!’ Aunt Alice greeted her in a chirpy tone, a pot of tea in her hand.
‘Good morning. Sorry, I can’t stop for breakfast. I’m running late,’ Sarah said as she shrugged into her coat.
Her aunt tut-tutted and shook her head. ‘You’ll be sorry later. What about a piece of toast? I don’t like you going to work on an empty tummy.’
This was typical of Alice; such a mother hen. And for the hundredth time, Sarah wished Maura could have experienced family life with the Lambes. ‘I’ll grab something in the canteen, I promise. See you at lunchtime,’ Sarah said, kissing her aunt’s cheek, before making for the door.
She stalled in the open doorway. All was still; that particular silence that comes with snow. Flurries were drifting down, coating everything in white. She breathed in the cold air and her pounding head eased. As she pulled on her gloves, she saw young Edward, the Post Office messenger boy, coming down the path. Sarah waved to him, thinking how smart he looked in his uniform. But he didn’t respond as he normally would; instead, he walked up to her, unsmiling, before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a telegram.
‘Good morning,’ Edward said, not quite meeting her gaze. ‘This is for you, miss.’
Sarah went numb, staring at it. Telegrams were never good news. Not these days.
‘Who’s there, Sarah?’ she heard her aunt call out. Seconds later, Aunt Alice was at her side, looking down at the messenger boy. ‘Good morning, Edward,’ she said. ‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘Much better, Mrs Lambe.’ His eyes strayed to the telegram in Sarah’s hand. ‘Should I wait for an answer?’
Sarah heard her aunt’s sharp intake of breath before she pressed Sarah’s arm. ‘No. My dear, best you come back inside to open that. Run along now, Edward.’
‘Very good, Mrs Lambe,’ he replied and scooted off.
‘Come in, love,’ her aunt said, tugging Sarah back into the house and closing the front door.
Sarah sat down by the fire, staring at the envelope. Maybe it was from the colonel in London about her mission, and not something awful. She glanced up at her aunt, whose brows were drawn in concern, a tea towel clutched in her hand. Swallowing hard, Sarah slit open the envelope. It was from Deirdre O’Reilly in Dublin, Paul’s sister.
Paul’s ship torpedoed Atlantic. Missing, presumed dead.
2
6th February 1942, MI5, St James Street, London
Two months had passed since Sarah had last met Colonel Everleigh, the head of MI5. Now she sat outside his office, on a cold and bleak Friday afternoon, nerves jangling. Everleigh was a manipulative man, though it had taken her a while to realise it. The colonel’s revelation that her father was alive had left her reeling, and she had accepted his challenge to work for him in a moment of pure rage and horror – as he had known she would. She had learned her lesson, vowing to be more careful in the future, realising she was just a pawn in this secret war with its obscure rules and shady motives.
The world had stopped turning for weeks after she read that telegram from Paul’s sister. She had barely made it through Christmas. Her sorrow had threatened to overwhelm her. Sarah’s friend Gladys and her cousin Martin were her greatest support, dragging her out of the house when all she wished to do was curl up in bed and shut out the world. Of course, officially, Paul was missing and with no body found Sarah could hope – but deep down she knew that hope was misguided wishful thinking. And through a haze of grief, Sarah’s hatred for the Nazi regime increased so much it frightened her. The need to strike back, in any way she could, became an obsession. Her thoughts returned, again and again, to her father, now collaborating with Germany for his own ends. Jim Gillespie had betrayed her and Maura by abandoning them. The memory of her sister’s anguish, in that split second before their home had collapsed around them, continued to haunt her dreams. Only now Paul was present in her nightmares too, reaching out to her in his final moments as the icy water of the Atlantic claimed him forever. She would wake up in torment, thrashing, the sheets twisted around her body. Each time it occurred, it only cemented her determination to strike back.
Ireland might still be neutral, but Sarah Gillespie was not.
The mission to track down her father carried high risk. She was no fool. She knew what she was dealing with, but that didn’t matter. Nothing much mattered any more. Without Paul, and without Maura, only revenge was important. Her grief had been tucked away until she completed this mission. Nothing could get in the way. But a tiny voice inside her head poked through every now and again and asked would she be the same person by the end of this? Would working in such a clandestine, though admittedly necessary, job corrupt her morally? It seemed likely when one was dealing in secrets and subterfuge, but war was branding everyone’s life, not just hers. The struggle to survive the evil of the times, and the loss and pain, were etched on most of the faces she passed in the street.
And so here she was, ready to do the colonel’s bidding. A year before, Sarah would have laughed off the idea as ludicrous, but today her foray into the official world of espionage would begin. Even more incredible for an Irishwoman, it would be for the British Secret Service. But life had been upended so thoroughly since the Luftwaffe had destroyed her world, nothing surprised her any more.
She would remain adamant: she had committed to this one assignment only. If successful, her father would face the justice he deserved. Removing him and his cell of republicans would hurt the very Nazis he was so happy to conspire with. Maura and Paul would be avenged, albeit in a small way, and then she could return to her job at Supermarine. She had been so proud to get the job at the company responsible for the design and build of the Spitfire plane. So much so, that she had made Miss Whitaker promise to keep her position on the tracing team open. She loved the job, taking the engineers’ drawings and tracing them out so that the publishers could compile the manuals used to build the planes. Sarah had always found the job soothing. One could forget one’s worries as the process demanded total concentration. Yes, a return to Hursley Park and Supermarine would be a return to normal life.
With nothing to do but wait, Sarah watched Miss Abernathy, the colonel’s secretary, from the corner of her eye. The young woman tapped away on her typewriter, her red fingernails flashing as they glided over the keys. Sarah caught the odd peek in her direction. There was a hint of disdain fuelling the smile lingering on the secretary’s lips. Despite obtaining her ration book just before Christmas, Sarah hadn’t updated her refugee wardrobe. All her clothes were courtesy of the nuns back in Dublin and comprised ill-fitting cast-offs of the most sensible and unfashionable variety. It was bad enough that her friend Gladys teased, but for a stranger to judge her was a bit much. Why were people so quick to draw conclusions b...
