Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Read online

  1941 - The Year of Desperation

  Chapter Fourteen: Rosetta

  “You think I’m a German spy.”

  It’s ridiculous. Unthinkable. I’m an ordinary fourteen year old girl. Fragile, feeble, and frightened. After Lydia drove me and my sister home from the exhibition, we never saw her again. I’ve never been to the British Museum. Didn’t get infected with the blue liquid. Special powers? They only exist in fairy tales and comic books.

  “It’s not enough to act,” Kostis taught me. “You need to become someone else. Play the innocent victim. That’s how you get their guard down. You’re a child. It should be easy.”

  It was. As easy as ‘accidentally’ trespassing on the estate grounds and blundering into a guard patrol. If I looked older – or was a boy – I’d be under interrogation by a mean Army sergeant. But since teenage girls can’t possibly be spies, the soldiers escorted me inside the manor – the hub of their secret base – and left me in the care of a babysitter. The curly-haired typist wasn’t too chuffed with her commanding officer’s ‘request’, and she’s still seething.

  “You tell me, dearie,” she says in a thick Scottish accent. “Why were you sneaking around the woods?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I was looking for my little sister. We were playing hide and seek in the forest, and she…” I cry into my long cotton glove. No sob story is effective without tears. “She’s probably all right, but…”

  The typist tosses me a soggy handkerchief. It’s been washed recently, and is crumpled from overuse. We’ve been at war with Germany eighteen months now. Food has already been rationed, and we’re constantly reminded to be efficient with everyday supplies. I shed false tears into the hanky, and take the opportunity to recall this morning’s events.

  I’m at the village greengrocer, doing the weekly shopping run for Mister Fenway: the gentle-mannered, elderly farmer I live with. His wife passed away last year, so I help out with household chores in return for lodging. The other girl staying at our cottage was evacuated because of the Blitz - the German bombing raids on London – but I grew up here. This village is my home.

  “What will it be, Miss Proctor?” asks the white-aproned, beady-eyed grocer.

  Kostis taught me to never use my real name, but that seems overcautious to me. The ruins of Clayton Manor were demolished during the 1930s depression. Nobody around here remembers my family.

  That’s enough reminiscing. I speed things up. The grocer’s hands blur, weighing vegetables and cancelling my ration coupons in an instant. He returns my little pink book. This is when it happened. I slow the passage of time to normal.

  The little brass doorbell pings behind me.

  “—nervous at first too,” a cockney woman says.

  She’s the short one with her hair tied in a bun. I’ll see her face in a minute, but I need to concentrate on the conversation and check my facts. I hear high-heeled footsteps. Two sets, synchronised. The bell rings again, and the door clacks shut.

  “They have so many rules at BP,” the cockney continues. “I shouldn’t be talking to you off site.”

  “Always following rules.” The second woman adds a giggle. “You sound like my little sister.”

  She’s alive. I’ve seen a dozen Irenes since I returned to England. Every taller-than-average blonde has my sister’s face until I look more closely. But the woman in the shop used that phrase, spoke about me in that derisory tone. It’s her. This time I’m certain.

  Has she seen me? Unlikely. My purple felt hat covers my hair, and a girl shopping in a village is hardly unusual. I crouch down and pretend to adjust my stocking.

  Customers are reflected in the scale bowl, squashed up on its convex surface. Two women are by the door, wearing navy blue uniforms with skirts and caps. The lady in front is diminutive, but the one behind her – with trimmed blonde hair – is anything but.

  “Are you okay, Miss Proctor?” the greengrocer enquires. I’m so glad I took Kostis’ advice now.

  “Just checking I have everything,” I say quietly.

  The two women walk to the cabbage section and turn away from the counter. I fold the brown paper shopping bag, take it, and move swiftly behind the central stall. The potatoes are stacked high, and the pegged cardboard signs provide some welcome cover.

  “Edith.” There’s a nerve jangling moment where I think Irene’s spotted me. “This silly woman I know. She says there’s a new project. It’s all hush hush. Something called Rosetta.”

  “What isn’t hush hush at BP?” The woman sounds mystified. “Rosetta? I’ve seen that on a memo about the new hut, but we shouldn’t be talking about it. Gosh! Look at the time.”

  “Come on,” says Irene. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  The short bun-haired lady opens the door. Now I can see her uniform more clearly I realise she’s a wren, a member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. They often work in support roles such as typists and radio operators. Irene’s skirt is up to her kneecaps, and her buttoned jacket ready to burst open. There are red blistery rings around her ankles, above the shoe leather. These clothes belonged to a smaller woman. Past tense… I’m already assuming the worst.

  I nosy through the front window, standing behind the etched golden letters to conceal my face. The two women get into a burgundy Morris, with my sister taking the driver’s seat. There’s no way to follow them, but I know they’re going to BP. Wherever that is.

  I return to the present, omitting my fact-finding trip to the local library. Perusing atlases and street maps took me all afternoon. Even freezing time didn’t accelerate the process much. Quite a few places in the vicinity had the right initials, but only one seemed plausible. Bletchley Park. A manor estate with stables and outbuildings. Expansive grounds, secluded, a rail link to London. Ideal for military use. After I dropped the shopping off at Mister Fenway’s and took the last train to Bletchley, it was already eight o’clock.

  Now it’s almost nine. Working such a late shift… no wonder the typist’s so miserable. “Your sister’s not here,” she says, reclaiming her handkerchief. “And you shouldn’t be either.”

  She’s wrong. I knew I’d come to the right place when they brought me into an office staffed with wrens. I’ve not seen much of the manor: an entrance hall with British flags and portraits of old Prime Ministers, a cloakroom, a kitchen. The men I passed in the corridors were high-ranking officers and Oxbridge graduate types, eccentric boffins who probably do crossword puzzles as a hobby. Whatever’s going on here is very high level, which makes my sister’s interest all the more worrying.

  I won’t learn anything by staying quiet. The typist isn’t the sort to engage in friendly chitchat, but everybody has a soft spot. What do I know about her? She’s Scottish, obviously. Late twenties. Blonde hair tucked in a Royal Navy cap labelled HMS Pembroke. Plain silver ring, so she’s married or engaged. Neatly stacked papers on her desk. Standard typewriter. A few pens. An unframed, black and white photograph of a handsome, short-haired pilot in a Lancaster bomber.

  Maybe she’ll respond to flattery. “He’s in the air force,” I say. “Defending our skies. You must be proud.”

  “His plane was shot down last week. Over Germany.”

  The typist puts the photo in her top desk drawer and slams it shut. Bombers are for attacking, not defending. How could I be so stupid?

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I apologise.

  “Then you shouldn’t be so nosy,” the typist says. “Why the soldiers couldn’t take you home I’ll never know. Shouldn’t you call your mother?”

  She shoves the telephone across so hard the receiver falls off. I need to choose my next words carefully, or she will think I’m a spy.

  “No. Our house doesn’t have a telephone.” A poor excuse, but it will suffice. “Mother will be worried if I don’t come home soon though.”

  “Everybody’s busy, and I don’t finish until midnight. The boys rotate shifts in an hour. One of them can take you home.”

&nbs
p; The wren types up memoranda, stopping after every carriage return to remind me she’s watching. I let myself get captured because I didn’t think there’d be much security. Now I’ve gone and stumbled on some top secret operation. My sister’s not here to serve King and Country. I don’t have an hour to waste sitting in this stupid chair. If I could get the typist alone…

  “I want to go now!” I wail, disturbing every wren in the office. “You can’t keep me here! Please.”

  “Maybe I should telephone the police,” the typist says.

  She’s stopped tapping her keyboard. Her hard shell’s starting to crack. Maybe a little more persuasion.

  “They could take forever to get here,” I say. ”Why can’t you take me? It’s just down the road.”

  “Fine,” sighs the typist. “Maybe they’ll let me swap shifts if I explain.”

  The senior wren agrees without argument, clearly moved by my teary performance. Two minutes later I’m alone with the typist in the cloakroom.

  I’ve got to do something before she leaves. Once we’re outside, there’ll be soldiers everywhere. I freeze time.

  What can I use? Wheeled metal racks – too unwieldy. Hatstands – too heavy. Long, woollen scarves – my sister could choke a grown woman unconscious, but the typist would shrug me off and call for help. I need something light, hard, and fast. There… the umbrella with the hooked mahogany handle.

  I open my eyes, lift it softly from the hatstand, and ditch my high heels. Mosaic tiles chill my stockinged feet. I hold my breath and raise the umbrella.

  “Let’s get you home.” The woman turns, catching me in mid swing. “What—”

  I close my eyes. It’s five years since I first practised fighting with a stick. I think back to the morning I arrived in Athens.

  “Look around,” says Kostis. “What do you see?”

  Not much, in truth. The window shutters are closed. It’s late evening, and parallel bars of orange light shine through the steep-angled slats. No electric lights, no candles. Kostis - my self-appointed guardian – is a bearded shadow. The bottom floor of his house serves as a kitchen and living area. There’s a table, wooden stools with woven straw seats, and a log-fired cast-iron stove, but I remember little else. Maybe if I freeze…

  “You dishonour Lydia by cheating.” Can Kostis see in the dark? How does he know what I’m doing? “For a second after you entered, the door was open, and you saw everything. In a fight that’s how long you have to assess the situation. Study the room, know where things are. Act first. Only think after it’s safe.”

  Kostis strikes a match, and uses it to light a paraffin lamp hung in a recessed alcove. The four walls, ceiling, and staircase are all white rock, possibly limestone. The floor is cobbled, the wooden storage cupboards all closed. Sharp knives glint in a free standing rack on the kitchen counter.

  “If you had to fight me,” Kostis says, “what weapon would you choose?”

  My eyes go straight to those knives. Kostis lowers his head, apparently disappointed. But the faint smile suggests he expected it. “You would turn your back on me? Never leave yourself exposed. There are many weapons in this room.”

  Kostis kicks over a stool, grabs a wooden leg, and twists it loose. He thrusts the pole at me, stopping a whisker from my face.

  “You knew that stick was loose,” I complain. “Not very fair.”

  “Fighting is never fair. Everything you know that the enemy does not gives you an advantage.”

  Kostis throws me the wooden leg. I fumble, but manage to catch it.

  “Now you have the advantage, you must use it,” he says. “Hit me.”

  I speed through the training, having no great desire to watch myself miss an unarmed man repeatedly. Three days pass before I even touch Kostis, and weeks before I’m competent enough to hit him with any force.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask during one late night session. “Helping me?”

  “Lydia always wanted to train you. She is no longer here to do it, and soon I…” Kostis wheezes, jumping over my low swing. “…will be too old.”

  “I’m twenty-seven, but I suppose that is young to you.” I block a retaliatory strike. “Have I improved?”

  Kostis stands at ease. “Greatly. But you still have more to learn. The Nazis claim to have a connection to the ancient Greeks, but they will not hesitate to trample us. You have seen how aggressive they are. It will not be long before the world is at war again.”

  On that prophetic note, I return to the present.

  “—on Earth are you doing?” asks the typist, staring at the raised umbrella.

  Act first, Kostis says in my head. Only think after it’s safe.

  I bring the umbrella sharply down, clonking the typist’s head with the metal end. It’s blunt, but sturdy enough to stun her. While she’s recovering I whack her on the chin with the wooden handle. Kostis demonstrated how to twist my body to increase my momentum, and I land a knockout blow. The typist falls back through fur coats, her body propped against the wall.

  I squeeze her wrist, relieved to feel a pulse. The typist wasn’t the kindest of women, but she is on our side. I feel guilty deceiving her, but nobody here would have believed the truth.

  “Sorry,” I say to deaf ears. “But we do what we must.”

  I check my watch: half past eight. Based on what Miss Grumpy told me, the evening shift ends at midnight. They’ll find her then, if they don’t come looking before. The best I can do is find a temporary solution.

  I lift up the woman’s exposed legs and swing them underneath the cloaks. Her body’s bent at an uncomfortable angle, and she’ll probably wake up with a stiff neck. But that’s the least of my concerns. I slide the wire hangers along the rail, ensuring she’s well hidden.

  So much for being alone. I’ve no idea where to look for my sister. Or maybe I do.

  “Rosetta,” I mutter. “Rosetta…”

  That’s what Irene asked the wren about. A girl’s name. I’ve heard it before, but when? I close my eyes and let my mind take over.

  “Would you like to know another secret?” asks Father.

  He’s sober. And I’m a cheerful, innocent girl wearing a pretty pink dress and bow-tied hair ribbon. I’m ten years old again.

  “Yes!” I say, dancing around his study. “Another treasure room!”

  Father opens his safe. I rush over to look, but sulk when all I see is a leather bound book. The same one I’ll open in this very room four years from now.

  “What’s that?” I ask, disappointed.

  “You like pictures, don’t you?”

  Father places the book on his desk. He flicks to a page with drawings of animals. There’s a weird bird and a dog walking on its two hind legs. Below that there are some wavy lines and a man with a crooked stick.

  “These were drawn by the Pharaohs, Egyptian kings,” says Father. “They are called hieroglyphics.”

  “What are—” I don’t even attempt to repeat him.

  “Ancient writing, but what’s interesting is how we were able to translate them. We used something called the Rosetta Stone.”

  I hop and skip to my favourite golden statue. It’s a jackal, like in the picture. I used to call it a dog, back when I was a little girl.

  “Is the Rose stone magic?” I ask.

  “Rosetta stone,” Father corrects me. “I’m afraid not, Edith. But it was a wonderful discovery, the kind I’d like to make one day. It was a stone with inscriptions, the same text in three different languages. Egyptian hieroglyphs, which we couldn’t understand, and two others we could. By comparing them we worked out…”

  I look at my reflection in the gold statue, not paying attention. Or I didn’t when I was ten. Now I listen intently to every word my father says. But nothing he tells me has any connection to present day events, and I return to Bletchley Park none the wiser.

  How could my father act so nice, and hide a monster within? I suppose that memory was from before the furniture sales, when he still had m
oney. His selfishness didn’t come to the surface until later, but in hindsight there were always signs he’d do anything for that one great discovery. I shake him from my mind, and focus on the important details.

  Is Rosetta a secret project? Are the British translating a coded German message? Or maybe it has nothing to do with the stone, and some general named it after his mother. It doesn’t matter. I still don’t know where to look for my sister. Wait… that wren mentioned a new hut. When the soldiers brought me up the front path I saw converted stables, brick houses and… Wooden huts!

  I creep to the window and peer cautiously over the sill. It’s dark out there, but I remember guards being concentrated near the perimeter fence, with most watching for danger from outside. The unpainted hut with clean windows and the electric light out front – the new one – is where I need to go. Only three soldiers patrol the outbuildings, walking along fixed routes. There are gaps in the security I can exploit. But I’ll need to move fast. A few bushes grow in the gardens, but its mostly open ground.

  My disguise is useless now, so I may as well change into more suitable clothing. I watch the door while I reverse my gloves, turning them from white to black. I slip out of my purple dress, roll it up, and stuff it under the rack. My high heels and hat fit under there, too. Kostis made me a black cloth outfit, the same design as Lydia’s but tailored to fit a child. I pull down the sleeves, extend the leggings and rubber soles, and I’m ready to go.

  I lift the cloakroom window latch, wait for the soldiers to look away, and gently ease the sliding panel open. I leap over the ledge, lower the window behind me, and sprint for the bushes.

  I’m a black ghost, a fleeting shadow ordinary people wouldn’t pay attention to. But I’m up against trained soldiers, and they will investigate anything untoward. I can’t afford to be seen.

  “—nearly done for tonight. Just two more rounds.”

  Guards! They’re about to turn the corner. I drop flat on the ground and lie still.