Chapter 9
Jack had arrived at Bletchley Park in the county of Buckinghamshire early that afternoon. It was only around fifty miles from Baker Street, but the marked contrast between town and country was dramatic.
He’d visited Britain’s top-secret wartime codebreaking headquarters before, but never for any considerable length of time, so he wished to find his bearings as quickly as possible. His role as an SOE liaison officer meant he was immediately viewed with some suspicion, but he was prepared for that.
It was freezing in the unheated wooden hut where he’d been assigned a desk shortly after arrival, and he was grateful for his winter overcoat.
He went outside, sidestepping workers huddled in small groups near the huts, and walked towards the lake.
Lighting a cigarette as he took in his surroundings, he smoked and assessed the peaceful pastoral scene.
The stark winter conditions did nothing to dull the beauty of the grounds, and his eyes wandered from the tangles of grey rushes at the edges of the dark lake to the ducks drifting slowly on the still water.
The vibrant green heads of the Mallard drakes shimmered in the pale winter light, and geese thrashed their wings, squabbling amongst themselves and paying no attention to the stranger watching them.
Jack blew a ring of smoke into the icy air and studied the mansion across the lake.
The Victorian house was a curious mix of Tudor, Gothic, and Baroque architecture, but was impressive despite the odd blend of period styles.
His eyes strayed briefly to the copper-green turret and the smoking chimneys on the roof.
The house was full of staff working in the offices at all hours, and even as he gazed at the building, a young man and woman exited the front door and hurried down the path in the opposite direction of the sprawling estate.
Lizzie liked it at Bletchley, and he wished she were by his side now, but the war meant they spent considerable time apart, even though they were now officially engaged.
Lizzie reminded him they were the lucky ones.
Juliet rarely saw her fiancé Oliver, who, like their brother Archie, was on active service, and Jack knew the Beaumont family lived in dread of an unexpected knock at the door by a telegram boy.
Jack’s thoughts flitted to his brother Henry, but he forced them out of his mind.
He must focus on what he was here to do, not allow himself to wallow in gloom.
Bletchley was a remarkable wartime initiative.
What had begun as a small group of hand-picked cryptographers had snowballed into a huge global intelligence operation.
Val told him that the staff on site had grown to over five thousand and, as a result, BP, as insiders called it, was bursting at the seams.
Staff were billeted in local homes, but Jack’s secretary had booked him a room at a pub in Bletchley village.
His driver had already returned to Baker Street after dropping off his suitcase at the pub, so he was marooned.
The thought of borrowing a bicycle crossed his mind, but that was more Lizzie’s style.
A memory of her racing around on a battered bike in Toulouse made him chuckle, and he wondered whether she would cycle in Bern too, but he assumed it would be too icy at this time of year.
She had been on his mind almost constantly since he dropped her at the airfield and watched the tiny plane rise into the sky, and he hadn’t left Baker Street until the message from their agent, Tom Green, had reached his desk.
Elizabeth Gale had arrived safely at the British Legation in Bern.
Jack could breathe again.
He finished his cigarette and ground it out with his foot on the path as he returned to the hut area.
Inside, people hunched over their desks, whilst others darted from one corner to the other, a heavy haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
On the wall, beside Jack’s desk, was a poster reminding the hut boffins that Careless Talk Costs Lives.
His stomach growled, and he decided he needed something to eat.
A young woman in Women's Royal Naval Service uniform, or Wrens as they were called, sat at a table nearby and directed him to the recreation hut, and he went in search of refreshments. There was no decent coffee, so he ordered a mug of tea and a fish paste sandwich. The tea was strong enough to take the hairs off his chest, and the bread was the standard grey National Wheatmeal variety. He reminded himself this wasn’t Baker Street, which had access to luxury goods, and he’d have to acclimatise to living strictly on rationed items. At least there was beer, and he looked forward to having a pint later once he’d made some headway.
Jack returned to his desk and ate his late lunch, surreptitiously studying the other inhabitants of the hut.
There must have been twenty workers crammed into the makeshift space, mostly women absorbed in their work, and a handful of professor types dressed in tweed jackets, several of them smoking pungent-smelling pipes.
Everyone ignored him as though he wasn’t there, and he realised his assignment would be tougher than he’d thought.
He was an outsider, and he felt it acutely at that moment as he finished his sandwich and drained the enamel mug that had been allocated to him.
It was going to be a lonely posting, but he’d still rather be busy amongst strangers than in his empty London flat without Lizzie.