SEEKING AN AGENT
Chapter 14
When she woke, Werner informed her that they had flown down the shin of Italy, had reached the toe and were now flying west along the coast of Sicily. They’d drop altitude soon and pass between Tunisia and Sardinia.
The sun-washed bays and sun-flecked waves of the Mediterranean were only familiar to Hilda from the books she had treasured during her Elgin childhood. Now they shone and sparkled beneath the plane, oblivious to the war. She wondered if the hostilities would ever reach as far as the colonies of France in North Africa, or the multitude of countries that formed the British Empire. She had a dreadful thought: perhaps the war would come to Africa, to enable Germany to reclaim its former territories in Trans Togoland, Mozambique and South West Africa. Re-colonizing would not be a welcome move, now that the Empire’s many countries were beginning to strain at the leash and hanker after independence, as indeed were the French colonies. She wondered if India would supply Britain with men and materials, as they had done in great quantities during the previous war. Would Australia see it as a purely European war this time? How lonely we might be, she thought.
The afternoon turned to early evening, and soon it was dark. The remainder of the flight was uneventful, and when she reached Lisbon airport she was pleased to be on firm ground again. It was after eight o''clock, and the warmth of the air surprised her as she was driven into the embassy grounds. Crickets clicked and frogs sounded their bass notes from the borders of the garden. At first, she thought there had been a party that evening; all the lights were on at the embassy, and the place was a hive of activity. She was not sure what was happening, but Portuguese staff were being directed to take boxes of various sizes to different locations.
She alighted from the car at the steps. The driver took her cases to the hallway and she was greeted by Ambassador Wilhelm Klee, who welcomed her to Portugal.
‘Frau Richter, I am delighted to see you have arrived safely. You must be tired, hungry too. Let me take you through to see what we can find. It must have been a long flight.’
‘Your Excellency, I know you have been well informed, and you''re aware why I am here. But do you know name I shall go under?’
The Ambassador stopped in his tracks.
‘Forgive me. Miss Campbell, of course. Knowing you were the widow of Dr Willy Richter, and I being a Hamburg born man, my memory slipped into the past. Dr Richter was a fine doctor and a wonderful man.’
She smiled as he brought back thoughts of Willy. ‘He certainly was. I see we have much in common.’
‘Yes, we have indeed. All the same, I must send you on your way tomorrow. There are eyes and ears around. Lisbon has a nest of spies. First though, some food, then you will be shown to your room. With the war under way, we have been making arrangements here. Do excuse the noise and confusion. We expect our numbers to increase soon, and we are making room for the new arrivals.’
‘Numbers?’
‘There will be more like you, I suspect. We have a greater need for our own eyes and ears than ever before.’
Despite the bustle around the house, she was asleep well before midnight. The feather mattress welcomed her, washing away both her excitement about the new life to come, and her horror at the prospect of being sucked into the emerging Nazi war machine outside Germany.
The following morning after breakfasting on black bread and scrambled eggs, she left the embassy without any farewells. A local taxi took her bags and they set off north along the coast. Waves dashed against stout Atlantic boulders, and gulls shrieked and dived low out of sight, reappearing and soaring playfully. A few puffed-up clouds dotted the sky but the warm sun soon burned them away. The smell of fish caught her nostrils; donkeys pulled boxes of it along the side of the road.
Eventually they came to the fishing port of Peniche, lying at the bottom of a high basalt cliff. The road bent and twisted down to the harbour, which sheltered several fishing boats in the Portuguese national colours of red and green. It was a simple fishing village, and the harbour was not large, but numerous nets lay drying on the quay, and some women were mending them and throwing out trapped seaweed. In the distance small fishing boats were fighting the waves to get home in time for lunch. There were shops selling bread and other provisions, clothes too. Perhaps she needed a wardrobe change. She certainly planned to try to look more local, and the shop would be interesting to see.
‘You should go into the village to meet the people. They will be very interested in you,’ said the driver. ‘Not far now.’
He drove on another mile or so, then turned off the road. The car slowed down on the uneven ground, and she saw her house, perched almost on the top of the cliff, with a spectacular view over the sea. She climbed out of the car and found a pathway leading from the house towards the cliff. It veered to the right then began to drop. She peered over the end to see the most wonderful sandy beach below, with a steep path leading to it. Not a soul was on the sand. The only movement was from the gigantic waves pounding the foreshore and running up the beach, nibbling the sand. She took a deep breath of sea air, then another. It was so refreshing, and the war seemed so far away.
Her driver deposited her cases in the house and she paid him from the allowance the ambassador had arranged for her. Inside the house on the kitchen table was a loaf of bread, some tins of sardines in tomato, more in salt water and yet more in light garlic oil. Her bedroom was at the side of the house. From the window she could see her nearest neighbours’ cottage, some four hundred yards away. She wondered how long it would be before she made their acquaintance.
There was a radio on the sideboard. She tuned in, searching for a British frequency. Eventually she found London’s Home Service and learned that the country was getting ready for war. She had missed most of the broadcast, so she searched for the Light Programme instead, and found Henry Hall’s music. Much as she enjoyed it, she instinctively lowered the volume, but raised it again almost immediately. After all, what would mark her out as more quintessentially British than to be caught listening to Henry Hall? She turned it down a little, all the same, in case someone came to complain. And no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her very first Portuguese visitor arrived, with a plaintive meow. The dark glossy black cat with four white socks slowly walked towards her and circled around her legs. ‘Come here, come here to Hilda,’ she said, wondering where it had come from.
‘Well, have you come to visit me, or are you staying? Will you catch mice for me, perhaps?’
She opened a tin of sardines. If he was a stray he was welcome to stay, she thought. He wouldn''t leave in a hurry now he had a bowl of fish to enjoy.
It took almost the rest of the day to unpack and get a feel for the house and its surroundings. The cat followed her every movement as if it was trying to trip her up. For as long as it stayed with her, no matter how long that might be, she decided she had better give it a name. It should describe its dark coat rather than its white socks, she thought; and so Inka became part of her new life in Portugal.
As the sun was sinking into the azure sea before her, she heard a bicycle bell approach. She looked out of the window to see the local priest arrive, bouncing over the rough ground.
‘Good evening,’ he said in Portuguese.
She hesitated before replying in English. ‘Pardon me, I don’t speak Portuguese yet. Come in, please,’ she said ushering him in with a wave of her arm.
‘So you are English. You are very welcome here.’
She smiled, unable to stop herself from correcting him. ‘I’m Scottish actually, but you were not to know.’
‘Ah, then we still speak English too. There are not many British people living here on the coast. Not as many as those who have made their homes further south.’
‘I am not sure how long I’ll be here. I plan to stay for at least a year, maybe longer. You see, it will take that time for me to write a novel.’
‘Ah, so you are an author?’
‘No, this is my first book. I thought I’d write it in the sun, by the sea, away from the rush of the town. That’s why I chose to come here to Peniche.’
The priest cast his eyes around the room. ‘You have chosen well. You could have gone to France or Spain, but we are delighted to have you with us.’
‘Then perhaps you will be able to tell your parishioners why I have come to live with them?’
‘My parishioners? I was hoping you might join them, then you can tell them yourself. You might even pick up the language. Of course the Eucharist is in Latin. You’d be familiar with the hymns, I am sure.’
Clearly he did not realize she was not Catholic, and she wondered how, or whether, she should inform him. She folded her arms and began to rub elbows. ‘I... er... come from a different Christian tradition.’
‘Yes, I would have thought so. The Tridentate Mass might surprise you, however.’
He was persistent; she decided not to discourage him. ‘Do all your worshippers understand Latin?’ she asked, a little mischievously.
‘No, very few. It’s the tradition they like,’ he replied.
‘I see,’ she said. It appeared the church played a significant part in local life.
Inka jumped up on her lap and she stroked him. The priest smiled.
‘I see you have a friend already.’
‘Yes, a stray who has settled with me. At least, I think it’s a stray.’
‘It will be. There are many stray cats. They find the homes that suit them. Perhaps you’ll find a home with us at St Peter’s?’
It would not endear her to the people if she stayed aloof, and made no attempt to learn their language. She thought she might consider his suggestion.
‘You would be made most welcome.’
‘That is very thoughtful of you. Let me think about it.’
‘Certainly. There will always be a welcome,’ he said, standing up.
Hilda settled Inka on the floor. ‘Thank you for being my first human visitor.’
The priest smiled. ‘I hope I won’t be the last,’ he said, making for the door.
He was kind, Hilda thought, but she would not be attending his church just yet.
As evening fell she took a short walk outside. Lights appeared in cottage windows as the light faded. Occasionally a dog barked, a voice shouted at it and a door closed. The moon cast an eerie light over the sea and then lost its way among the rocks. She stood for a moment, mesmerized by the constant motion of the waves. Perhaps waves from the west started out near New York. Ah. Waves; New York. It was time to make contact.
She returned to the cottage and wedged a stone by the front door to keep it open, facing the sea. She unpacked her radio, and looked around outside again. No one was about. She fetched a blanket and placed it on the floor by her feet. If someone approached unexpectedly, she could cover the radio immediately. As she prepared for her first transmission, her stomach lurched like the crashing waves below.
She secured the aerial, placed her earphones in position and dialled her code. She sent her message to Nancy, with the mixed feelings of success and doubt accompanying her transmission. She kept the message brief; she simply said she was now in position on the Portuguese coast and was ready to receive.
A response came three minutes later. Great. Also in post... no news today... will keep you informed...
She tried to work out whether America’s east coast was five or four or even six hours behind as she closed the box and took down the aerial, packed away the earphones and hid the radio under her bed behind a pottery bedpan. She chuckled for a moment; it was called it a gazunder in her youth. She brought it out so that it was just visible under to the edge of the bed; if any visitors noticed it, they would quickly avert their eyes. She checked from all angles to ensure the radio was well back out of sight, then sank into the only armchair in the room with a long sigh.
She had made her first contact So far so good. Her hand was still shaking. How many more times would she have to do it? Would she become over-confident as time went by? Inka gave her a penetrating look, which did nothing to dissipate her unease.
After letting the cat out for the night, she sat down again and began to reflect on the whirlpool of events which had brought her to this cottage on the Portuguese coast. Inka reappeared, startling her a little. She took the small creature up on to her lap, and as she stroked her velvety neck and back, Inka began to purr gently like a distant motorbike. At last Hilda relaxed, soothed by the sound. The cat had made her feel welcome in Peniche.
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I certainly hope that others will read and comment on these chapters. They are so very good.
Ron