One Woman's War by Christine Wells

Author:Christine Wells
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-07-16T00:00:00+00:00

Part 2

Chapter Thirteen

London, England

February 1943

Paddy

Unlike Paddy’s former place of work upstairs, the Admiralty’s Room 13 hunkered down in the bowels of the building, at the end of a dingy corridor lined with so many exposed pipes, it resembled a map of the London Underground. This small, overcrowded den was presided over by Captain Ewen Montagu and Flight Lieutenant Charles Cholmondeley. (“Chumly. Spelled C-H-O-L-M-O-N-D-E-L-E-Y,” as he’d introduced himself to Paddy the previous day.)

A fog of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling of Room 13 and the walls were papered in maps. Small desks were crammed wherever one would fit, and a large refectory table dominated the space. Around the table sat twelve people—secretaries in civilian clothes and uniformed officers, mostly from the Navy.

The room was so cramped that Paddy was obliged to wait in the corridor outside until a place was found for her to sit. Patricia Trehearne, the pretty secretary who had come to fetch her when Paddy signed in at the front reception, found her a chair and said, “Do come in, Mrs. Ridsdale. Tea? Coffee?”

Paddy politely refused. Miss Trehearne had better things to do than fetch refreshments.

What is all this? Paddy wanted to ask, but habit kicked in and she remained silent. They would tell her what she needed to know, and no more. But she couldn’t help allowing her gaze to travel over the maps, the most detailed of which showed the southern coast of Spain. A large red pin marked the port of Huelva. Paddy frowned. Now where had she heard Huelva mentioned before?

The luncheon she’d attended at Fleming’s brusque invitation had been remarkable in several ways, but primarily for the absence of its host. Fleming’s reserved table at the Savoy Grill had been occupied by three other people, all in plain clothes. There was Patricia Trehearne—perhaps brought along to give the party a more sociable air. There was a tall, thin, brown-haired man with a waxed moustache and round eyeglasses who introduced himself as Charles Cholmondeley, and there was Captain Ewen Montagu, who now stood at the head of the refectory table in Room 13, gathering some papers together and clearing his throat as if preparing to give a lecture.

At the Savoy, they had eaten lamb cutlets and Scotch woodcock while the two men danced a delicate two-step around the object of their meeting. They referred to the job they wanted Paddy to do in such veiled terms that she had no clear idea of what on earth might be expected of her if she agreed. Montagu had closed the odd little meeting by saying that if she decided to help them with a matter that involved “a little play-acting and field work” she ought to report to Room 13 at the Admiralty at 0900 hours the next day.

“We do hope you’ll say yes, Mrs. Ridsdale,” said Cholmondeley. “We’ve heard such glowing praise from Fleming about you.”

That last comment came as quite a surprise to Paddy. She couldn’t imagine Fleming waxing lyrical over her competence—he’d always seemed to take her efficiency as the basic requirement of her role.

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