Page 15 of The Dark of the Moon
Last night we went to watch a film about the codebreakers at Bletchley Park. I sat on a camping chair on the grass at the local football field, and I thought I might never get up again, I was so stiff by the end of it. Dan and Kendra had to haul me back on to my feet in a most undignified manner, which we all laughed off.
The film was nonsense in places, really. Artistic licence, I suppose. The overall picture was fairly true to life, but it was riddled with misrepresentations. There never was a Polish spy. In fact, the opposite was true – we owe a greater debt of gratitude to the Poles than has ever truly been acknowledged. And Alan was far more approachable and well liked by all of us who worked with him. It did take me back, though. The darkened huts, lit only by the glare of the electric lights ... the terrible food ... the all-consuming routine of work, broken only by the Wednesday morning gas mask drills, and the camaraderie with Alan and the others in the hut.
Finn was full of questions afterwards, as we sat drinking cups of hot chocolate on the porch back at the house. The evening breeze blowing from the sea had a cool edge to it, so I was grateful for the hot drink. A full moon hung above the dunes, bathing them in its wash of white-gold light. It would have been a good night for flying.
The boy reminds me of Alan. Maybe that’s why the memories are so vivid here on the island. Maybe that’s why I see the faces again, so vividly in my dreams, and my grief has become so much sharper. The passing of the years dulled it, but talking to Kendra about my life is a whetstone honing the edges again. I want to keep going, though. It’s like retracing my steps, so that perhaps I can find the turnings I missed, new ways forward in the endless search for those who were lost ...
When I arrived home after the funeral, having spent a few more days of leave in Dundee, there was a letter from Ben waiting for me in the hall. I took it upstairs to read in the bedroom, kicking off my shoes and swivelling my legs on to the bed. It had been another long day of travelling in crowded trains and I was wrung out with the sadness of losing Teddy. His absence had felt all the more real after I visited his grave once more before I left, to plant some winter-flowering white heather that I’d dug up from the garden of our family home. At least I’d been able to do that. It brought me a little respite from the pain of losing him, knowing he was at peace now. How I wished I could have done the same for Amy.
I rested my head against the pillow for a moment, closing my eyes to squeeze back the tears. Then I tore open the envelope and read Ben’s letter.
Dearest Philly,
It’s so hard to go on, isn’t it, after losing Teddy? My heart bleeds for you, having to get back to a place that’s so far from home, having to focus on work and the everyday things without him in the world. It’s hit me hard, comingback here, so I can only imagine how much harder it will be for you. I hope that knowing each of us is here – even though we can’t be together yet – will help a little to see us through the dark days. We have to keep believing there’s light at the end of the tunnel of this war and keep doing everything we can to hasten its end.
A strange thing happened when I got back to my billet. I pulled a book out of the small bookcase in the living room here, thinking it would be a good distraction. I can’t even remember what the title of it was, because I was thinking of you, of our walk beside the firth, of how relieved I was to hear you feel the same way about me as I do about you. But then this piece of paper fell out from between the pages. The words written on it seem to be the right ones at the right time. They express exactly what I feel for you, in a way that I never could. I’m enclosing them with this letter, so you will read them and know.
I love you, Philly.
Yours, always,
Ben
I unfolded the sheet of paper, smoothing out the creases. On it was a handwritten poem. It had no title, nor any author’s name, and the words were simple. But, as he’d said in his letter, they were indeed exactly the right words at the right time.
As I read them, I cried again. But this time my tears were a potent mixture of longing and joy, falling like spring rain that carries the hope of a summer to come.
The light of the sun
On the water by day
Is a pathway that leads me to you.
The dark of the moon
In the night that we face
Holds the promise that helps us get through.
You don’t need to be with me
For me to know
That our two hearts will always be one.
For the days without number
I’ll always be yours,
By the dark of the moon and
The light of the sun.
Shortly after my night-time conversation in Hut 8 with the Prof, I was moved from cribs to join the cryptanalysis team in his office, working day shifts again. My job still involved trying to decipher the day’s Enigma settings but now I was concentrating on the more probable variations produced by the outputs from the bombe, a few steps along the process from where I’d been working before. Then, one afternoon, just as I was finishing my shift, Alan asked me to call in at the Cottage on my way home.
I was surprised. I knew the Head of the Cryptology Department’s office was housed in one of the cottages in the stable yard, alongside the Mansion, as we called the big house, and Alan would regularly say he was going over there for meetings with his boss, the same ‘Dilly’ he’d mentioned in passing when he’d told me about the meeting with the Poles. But I’d never had the opportunity to see inside the place for myself.
I was shown through to a small room at the back of the house, where the air was thick with the odour of tobacco smoke. ‘Mr Knox,’ said the girl who had answered the door, dressed in a twinset and pearls. ‘I have Miss Buchanan for you.’
