Beloved Beast. Karyn GerrardЧитать онлайн книгу.
we stop by for an early dinner and I can fill you in on the particulars.”
Luke lit a piece of rolled up newsprint and held it to the wood and paper until the flame caught. A lady spy. An uneasy feeling spread through him, but not in a bad way which concerned him. Tangling himself with a female, whether it was in a professional capacity or not, was not part of his plan.
Chapter 2
There were decided disadvantages to being an ex-spy, Gillian Browning discovered, and the feeling she was constantly being watched sat at the top of the list. It never left her. Today, however, her anxiety level was on high alert.
Probably nothing to it, because of late her nerves were not to be relied on. As she stepped out from the main entrance of the Mile End Tube Station, she glanced around nonchalantly looking for suspicious characters, but found none out of the ordinary. Yet, blending in with a crowd was the hallmark of a good spy. Gillian held her hat tight in case the wind carried it off as she hurried along Aberavon Road to her sister Joan’s small flat.
Piles of bricks from bombed out buildings and sandbags lined the street and made Gillian worry afresh over her sister’s stubborn insistence on staying in this part of London. Though “the Blitz” was over, the German Luftwaffe still bombed London on a steady basis, focusing mainly on the East End where the docks and other transport centers were located.
Despite being sisters, the two of them were not close. When Gillian was eight years of age and Joan six, their parents had divorced. Gillian stayed with her mother, Joan with their father. Her dad moved Joan to the East End where he would be closer to his job as a dock worker, while Gillian’s mother took her to Dover on the east coast of England to live with her grandmother. Years passed. They had no contact whatsoever, as their parents’ break-up was acrimonious.
A letter arrived out of the blue shortly after Gillian turned seventeen. Joan managed to cajole her father into giving up Gillian’s address. Through the years a sporadic correspondence grew between them. It wasn’t until Gillian arrived in London in early 1940 that they met face-to-face. The reunion was awkward, yet they managed to form a mutual respect for each other if nothing else. A good thing, because Gillian was Joan’s only source of income due to the fact the corner shop she’d worked at had been bombed five months ago.
Holding her purse under her arm, Gillian picked up the pace. Not the best of neighborhoods, she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the lingering garbage smell permeating the air around her. Broken crockery and other items littered the street, though not as bad at the height of the Blitz in 1941. Slowly but surely, Eastenders were doing what they could to make the area livable again, though a number of streets had been leveled. Thankfully not Joan’s. Not yet. Working at SIS, Gillian was well aware the war could go on for a few years yet.
It was already late afternoon. She couldn’t stay long since she should return to her own small flat in central London before the sun set. Gillian ran up the stairs to Joan’s second story lodgings. Her sister opened the door before she could even knock. Wearing a pair of gray overalls, Joan had her jet-black hair tied back in a knot. “Wasn’t sure you were coming today.”
Gillian stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. “Are you off somewhere?”
“I’ve recently joined the Woman’s Voluntary Service. Today we will be going around collecting kitchen waste and other items for possible recycle and reuse. I’m taking further nurse’s training as well. I tried to ring you, but the damned lines were down again.”
Removing her hat, she gave her sister a warm smile. “Good for you for joining the WVS.” Gillian opened her purse and handed Joan an envelope. “Here is the money for this month. You know we could save expenses by living together.”
Joan took the envelope and slipped it in the nearby desk drawer. “Thank you, but I can’t leave here, it’s my home. And you can’t leave where you live because it’s close to work. We are managing.” Joan smiled in return. “We will see how it goes. Besides, the bombings are few and far between now. It can’t go on forever.”
Gillian looked about the sparsely furnished but clean parlor. Although they hadn’t had much money, Joan told her she’d been happy here with her father, as he was a good man and took proper care of her. Despite his rough exterior, Joan never lacked for love and affection. It made Gillian a little sad she never visited her father before he died. She remembered he was a handsome, strapping man, about ten years older than their mother.
Joan sat on the sofa and Gillian next to her. “You look lovely, as always,” Joan stated.
Gillian scoffed. “Don’t look too close, my stockings have been darned too many times to count, and there is a patch on the elbow of my coat. As you say, we manage. Not much you can do with clothes rations. Or the food.” She clasped her sister’s hand and held it tightly. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Here now, ducks,” Joan cooed, her East End accent more pronounced than usual. “I’m right as rain. We all stick together here on Aberavon: watch out for each other, sharing what we can, when we can. Why, Mrs. Bartle brought me two slices of mince pie. What a rare treat. I can share it with you if you like.”
Joan would give you the shirt off her back. Gillian admired the pluck and fortitude of the Eastenders. She patted her sister’s hand then released it. “No, love. You enjoy. I want you to promise you will ring if you need me for anything, you hear?”
Her sister pulled her into an embrace and Gillian stiffened, as they never showed this kind of affection before. Pushing the awkwardness aside, she hugged her sister. They were all the family that was left. Their father had died of a heart attack in 1939. Their mother had died of cancer last year. At least she got to visit her mum before she passed. When it was all done and dusted, all they had was each other. A sobering thought.
After the heartbreaking experiences of the past several years, Gillian would accept any affection she could get.
* * * *
Once seated at their table, both men ordered glasses of Guinness. At thirty-four, his nephew, Fred, was one of the youngest heads of a division within MI-6. His keen intelligence had him attending university two years earlier than most young men his age. Along with his innate brilliance, he could have pursued anything he wished in the higher academics. But Fred had other plans. He was always interested in working in espionage, and was delighted when the British government approached him and offered him a position. Due to Fred’s high IQ and top-notch planning skills, his rapid rise within SIS was unparalleled.
Turns out Fred was correct, the owner did receive a consignment of fresh mutton from Scotland. They ordered it along with potatoes, carrots, and mushy peas. Thanks to the war, menu selection was limited. The government decreed no restaurant could charge more than five shillings for a meal. If people could afford it, chances were they could find a decent repast outside of hearth and home. Or at the many teashops where you could buy a hot cuppa and two pennies worth of scones.
“First meal you’ve had in ages, I take it?” Fred winked.
“Yes. Usually only do it when I am out in public. What is the account on the lady spy?”
“Ah, yes. Her name is Gillian Browning, though her new identification says Gill O’Keefe. She went undercover in pre-war Germany in nineteen thirty-eight. She’s a clever, resourceful girl and speaks the language fluently, also has a photographic memory which came in handy. Much like you have, Luke. Anyway, by this time we were well aware of the Enigma machine. She took a position as administrative assistant to one of the owners of Konski and Kroger in Berlin. It was she who gave us the information they had moved from a four wheel machine to a six wheel, vital knowledge which is now being put to good use by the code breakers at Bletchley Park.” Fred took a long drink of beer. “Oh, that’s good. Anyway, to continue. Gillian became the mistress to this Otto Kroger, and managed to seduce information out of him for close to two years.”
“How did this lady spy send the data out?” Luke asked.
“By writing to an ‘aunt’