Page 52 of The Island Girls

‘It would seem he had a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and he’d lost of a lot of blood. There’s also a nasty knock on the back of the head, so he was possibly unconscious when he entered the water. Without help, he didn’t have much chance of survival, and he drowned, one way or another,’ the doctor explained.

And who had been responsible for that gunshot? Peggy’s own untrained and stupid, accidental shot. She’d managed a hit to Klaus, which she had been intending, she was sure, but somehow, she’d accidentally killed innocent Charlie.

Despite the trauma of the last few days, Peggy slept deeply and peacefully that night, and the threatened pneumonia never came. Two days later, she had recovered from her head cold, and felt well enough to go to work.

‘There are things to do, Mum, and planes to meet. The sooner I get back to it, the better,’ she’d said as she put on her cap and left for the routine walk up to Poole Quay. Nobody had to know that she was dying on the inside, that she had killed an innocent man, and her heart was shattered. And she needed to find Darrell, and explain as much as she could, but she had to speak with Fletcher first.

At the Custom House steps, she felt for a moment that she’d seen a glimpse of Charlie, crossing the quay quickly and disappearing up one of the lanes, but she knew her mind was playing tricks on her. The Dutch boat had been collected, cleaned, and impounded by the harbour master and it was moored up along the quay just a few yards from the BOAC launch. Peggy went along to look down inside the boat, to the place where she’d seen what she had been convinced was Klaus’s dead body. Where could he possibly have gone? Had someone come to help him? She was sure he was dead, and yet it was Charlie lying cold in the mortuary. Charlie who’d seemed so good, and so heartbroken, and yet hopeful for a future in Poole Harbour. With her. It was all wrong.

The day went by in a dull dream, and everything Peggy saw before her was covered with a mist that seemed to come from her own mind. By the afternoon, she was exhausted, and when Patricia called her in to take a phone call from Fletcher, it was the last thing she wanted to do.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Peggy. I know you’re still struggling, but we have news that might interest you,’ he said.

‘Peggy, you’ll be aware that your mission was to follow Charlie Edwards – as we knew him – to try and ascertain if he might be a spy,’ Fletcher began, not expecting any answer. ‘And you did an excellent job of uncovering not only his true identity, but also leading us to another person of interest whom we had not imagined was at all connected. Klaus Schmidt was indeed a German spy and we have discovered that it was he who was responsible for leaking the information about our VIP guests, which led to the air raid, aimed to kill them all. Thankfully, this endeavour failed, and our leaders survived, although Poole took a terrible hit that night.’

‘But he is still missing, isn’t he?’ asked Peggy.

‘Not any more. The marines conducted a deep search of the marshes, and found our Klaus injured, but alive, and had him taken in for questioning. We have now been able to ascertain that Mr Klaus Schmidt had been harassing our friend Charlie who, although Dutch and of German descent, was not an enemy at all, but a man determined to fight against Germany,’ Fletcher continued. ‘And so this little venture is at an end. However, Miss Symonds, we have been singularly impressed by your bravery and professionalism, and would ask you to consider coming on board for more formal training for future work of a similar nature,’ he said.

Peggy held the receiver with both hands and stared out the window across the harbour and towards Brownsea Island. She thought of all the trauma of the last few days, but of how in theend her involvement had led to the capture a German spy – and the death of an innocent man. Did she want more of this? Or did she long to settle down with Darrell for a life of homely comfort? She sighed deeply before responding.

‘Mr Fletcher, do I have a choice? Because I do have a gentleman friend that I intend to marry, and settle down with. If the country can do without me, I think I would rather decline.’

‘That is a great disappointment to us, of course, but yes, it is your choice. However, should you ever change your mind, just call that number in Whitehall and use the same code to get back in touch,’ he said, and ended the call.

That evening, Peggy sat at the corner table in the Antelope, in exactly the place she’d been sitting when she first met Darrell. She was sure the airmen would be along soon, and within minutes, she heard their familiar accents fill the bar. She dared not look up, though she knew Darrell would be among them. But as the minutes wore on, and he didn’t come to her side, she dared to look around. She could not see him, though many of his friends were there. At last, she saw one of his closest friends and made eye contact, and he came over to sit with her.

‘Looking for Darrell, are you, love?’ he asked kindly, and when Peggy nodded, he frowned and continued. ‘He’s left Hamworthy – got a transfer elsewhere. Went yesterday.’ There was no easy way to say it, and the Australian way was straight up – right between the eyes.

‘What? Where? Why?’ demanded Peggy. ‘He must be coming back, though? How do I reach him? He didn’t even say goodbye,’ she said, tears pricking her throat.

The Australian coughed and put his pint down.

‘From what I heard, he knew you were seeing that other bloke, Charlie, and that turned the milk for him, so to speak. Never mind though, love, plenty more fish in the sea, hey?’ He laughed, nodding in the direction of his fellow airmen who were playing a rowdy game of darts in the back of the pub.

Peggy tried to smile, but instead picked up her things and left the pub in a hurry, the tears flowing freely now. She ran to the quay, and on beyond the activity of all the pubs, down to the dark lifeboat house. She sat on the wall there, legs dangling over the edge of the quay, looking across the black harbour to Brownsea.

This life of hers, the harbour, the boats, even the excitement of the flying boats, would be meaningless to her now if she couldn’t share it with Darrell, she realised. She had her mum and dad, and Molly, and the baby would be here soon, but how could she go on as before after all this? After she’d known the man whom she’d wanted to share her life with, and lost him?

She sat there, in the dark, until the tears ran dry, then thought again of all the action of these last few weeks. She felt in her bag where the pistol would have been, if she was still in service under the secret ministry work. And she made her choice.

The next morning, Peggy went straight to Patricia’s office and asked to use the telephone. She asked the operator for the number in Whitehall, and gave the code words.

‘Mr Fletcher,’ she said when she was finally through. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Where do I go for training?’

27

BRISBANE – DECEMBER 1998

Rebekah and Paul sat in the car outside Darrell Taylor’s small home. Rebekah held the file and the letter on her lap. She took a deep breath and looked at Paul.

‘He’s expecting us now. We’d best go in,’ she said, opening the car door and hoping they weren’t about to cause an aged man undue grief.

When they knocked on the door, they heard a surprisingly sprightly footstep in the hallway, and when the door was opened, they saw before them a man who was still tall, slim, and with the unmistakably suave bearing of a man of the air force. Rebekah realised she had been expecting someone very elderly, which she now knew to be stupid: Peggy had been seventy-eight when she had died, but that was from cancer. She was still fit enough to help with gardening before the illness had weakened her. Darrell was probably no more than eighty himself and seemed to be fit as a fiddle and looking sharp too.

He welcomed them in, through the small home and out to the little patio at the back where he had laid out plates, cups and saucers for morning tea.

‘I’ve made us some scones – my wife’s pumpkin scone recipe, and it never fails,’ he said, as he went back to the kitchen.

---