War a Love Story

In 1941 Russia comprised a fifth of the worlds land surface, but its main cities and industrial centres all lay to the west of the Volga, and it was this portion of the world Hitler hungered to take during the summer. During a ferocious German invasion the mass of the Red Army was quickly knocked to pieces in a series of colossal annihilation battles which cost it a million casualties, and by September four million more Soviet troops were slowly starving to death in miserable captivity. In the wake of the triumphant German Panzer Divisions followed the SS extermination battalions, clearing away vast numbers of unwanted peasantry and slaughtering Jews.

Hitler relaxed into dreams of having a colonial Eastern empire... a million square miles of Slavic helots, ruled by a handful of Herrenvolk... German viceroys. In a jubilant mood he declared in a speech to his Party faithful, "The maxims to follow are: conquer and cleanse... then rule and EXPLOIT."

Willy Froehlich was aware of none of this. It was early morning and a keen breeze from the North Sea was cutting across the narrow coast road as he walked its route. The people who had arranged things for him had thought it quite a clever ruse for him to remain in the guise of a woman, and he was wearing a simple top and skirt beneath a crumpled trench coat. His head was adorned with an unspectacular cloche style hat, his feet with white socks and dark brown side-buttoned shoes, and in his hand he carried a small, cheap suitcase containing the few items he had been able to bring with him. All in all his appearance hadn't changed much at all since departing from Ravenskopf eight months previously.

He was in England in a place called Essex, but he had only a vague idea of where that was. Before he had set out someone had shown him a map of the area, but the names on it had gone through his head like the words of a Bavarian music hall song. As he stared at the wide river estuary on one side and the rising ground and trees on the other, he realised he needed to be on his guard. He knew he was entering, what was for him, a hostile unchartered terrain, where people played by different rules, where different skills and knowledge were necessary for survival and where cosy assumptions could be fatal. To remain alive he'd had to accept banishment from his own country, but as he followed the road he saw it as a worthy path. He'd been charged with helping to make peace between Hitler's Germany and the British.

Despite his hatred of violence and his ultimate rejection of Nazism he was now an agent for Hitler codenamed `Harmony'. How had he, a not unintelligent person in the mid-twentieth century, come to this? It was ludicrous, but his part was clear and he was committed. He would manage it somehow; there was no sense in which he would be found wanting. He would do it in the memory of Felix Haushofer, the old man who had forfeited his life in the name of peace.

Perhaps it was an impossible task, but whenever the immensity of it weighed on his mind he recalled the English expression Felix had once mentioned to him. `From little acorns mighty oaks do grow'. He was determined that his little acorn was going to flourish, and not just because some Nazi Party official had told him it must, but because he himself wanted it to.

A noise interrupted the still of the early morning, and he watched as a car, a compact Austin 10, came up the road behind him. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should flag it down and ask for a lift or stand aside and let it drive on. In the event the car drew to a halt beside him without him making any kind of signal.

Three men sat inside, and the driver, an elderly clean shaven man, pushed his head out from the open side window. On the shoulder of his brown jacket was sewn a patch bearing the words HOME GUARD. "You've got a long walk in front of you if you're heading for Colchester, Miss." he said.

Willy nervously gripped the handle of his suitcase. "I'm not going to that place; I'm going to Brascombe Manor. Maybe that's not so far."

"Far enough. We had a report that a submarine was seen in the bay earlier. Could have been Jerry putting ashore a spy, so we thought we'd take a look."

The passenger in the back of the car climbed out and stood staring at him. He was wearing a brown blouse and brown trousers and he held a rifle in his hand. The man was holding it by the stock and he wasn't pointing or threatening with it, but just the near proximity of a gun felt intimidating enough.

Willy's heart thumped, but he had a pouty mouth and a beautiful face and he used them to conjure up a disarming smile. "You don't think that I'm a spy, surely."

The man seated in the car gazed up and beamed. "Course not; you're too little and pretty for that kind of thing." Then his smile turned down slightly at the corners. "But you do have a foreign accent and you are in the middle of nowhere, so I'd better have a look at your identity papers."

Willy quickly produced what was needed from the pocket of his coat and thrust the forged documents into the man's hand. He studied them for a moment. "Dutch are you?" he said rhetorically. "How did you get here?

"I come from the Refugee Resettlement Centre at Ramsgate."

"That's quite a distance from here."

"A man promised to take me to Brascombe Manor in his car, but he became what you call `fresh', and when I protested he humped me."

The man with the rifle gawped stupidly. "I think you mean he dumped you, luv." said the one examining his documents. "Some blokes just haven't learnt how to act the gentlemen."

"Everything here seems okay," he said, handing the papers back, "And since you're genuine we'll be proper gentlemen and take you to where you're going." He gave the man at his side a nudge with his elbow. "Ere, Nobby, get in the back. I've just found someone prettier than you to sit next to me."

A little over twenty minutes later Willy stood on the road again. At the end of a short gravelled drive bordered by grass paddocks stood a fine looking Edwardian house... grey stone mellowed by the years, with a battery of tall chimneys on its roof. There was a large oak door at its centre and so many windows showing that he didn't bother counting them. It wasn't as grand as Ravenskopf of course, but it was old, ogee and poignant. For a moment he dithered. The door, under a handsome limestone tympanum and surrounded by a cinque-foil arch, looked big and formidable and he hated the idea of banging on it to attract attention. But he had to get inside the house to see the man whose name was etched on his mind.

"Watchcha' sweetheart!" A voice rose up behind him and a youth swung past pedalling a red bicycle. Dressed in blue he was instantly recognisable as a post-boy. Willy watched him go to a smaller door at the side of the house and stuff mail through a letter-box. He then remounted and charged back wearing a wide hearty grin. "Keep an `and on yu h'penny, darlin'." he called as he went by.

Willy thought about what he'd said and interpreted it as `keep a hand on your half-penny', an inexplicable expression and one Felix Haushofer had never mentioned.

Taking a deep breath he approached the place where the post-boy had gone and rapped the brass letterbox. A moment passed and then a woman's face peered through the half-open door; it had sharp features, a slightly aquiline nose and hair that was tightly pulled back into a French knot. Her eyes looking him up and down with undisguised disapproval. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Willy stared at her bravely. "I am Wilhelmina Naarden. I have come from Holland to see Sir Mortimer Brascombe."

The woman's expression showed indignation if not outright disbelief. "Sir Mortimer always tells me if he's expecting a visitor. He hasn't said anything about you."

"I am expected, that's certain." insisted Willy stubbornly.

She took him inside the house and sat him in a narrow passageway on a hard chair with a tobacco-coloured corduroy seat. He found it difficult to decide whether the house was peaceful or merely gloomy. The stillness of everything gave an empty feeling to the place. "I'll tell Sir Mortimer you're here when he's had his breakfast. He can decide if he wants to see you or not." the woman told him.

Willy used the time alone to go over his cover story. He was anxious, because although it was reasonable plausible he had to use it to established himself as a resident in that house. Before long his eyes drooped. In the past two days he had endured a train journey, a long drive down an autobahn and a sea crossing, and now he felt exhausted.

He didn't notice the tall man come down the set of narrow stairs nearby, but the man saw him. He took note of the blond hair pulled back each side of the visitors face, noticed her white, even teeth chewing thoughtfully on the tip of a finger as he looked down at her. Her skin seemed rather pale, but her mouth was poppy red, full and tempting.

"Oh, hello!" he said cheerfully, "Are you waiting to see Mrs Whippet? Are you hoping to join the house staff here?"

Willy's head snapped up. The question was posed by an individual who stood straight and tall, a dapper young man dressed casually in slacks and open necked shirt with a paisley cravat at his throat. His handsome countenance was authorative and his head well formed under a luxuriant frame of blond hair, but although he looked neat and professional his demeanour suggested a relaxed man. He was expressing enough interest to set a girls heart afloat and Willy bristled uncomfortably. "No, I have come here to speak to Sir Mortimer. Who are you?"

The man's eyes twinkled and his mouth bent into a flirtatious grin. "You're right to be careful. I'm Jack the Ripper."

Willy laughed, again flashing his teeth. "That's ridiculous; Jack the Ripper is English folklore...isn't he?"

"I dare say you're right. I was lying, I'm rather respectable really. My name is Jeremy de Vere, and my father is a Court of Sessions judge. I can give you his telephone number if you like. You can phone and confirm..."

"That's silly."

Before the man could respond again the scowling woman returned, and he waved a good natured hand. "If you're still here at lunchtime we'll talk again."

"Sir Mortimer will see you now." the woman told Willy, "He's in the Gun Room."

Willy gulped. "Gun Room!" It sounded like the casement in a fortress.

"It's his study." the woman explained impatiently, "Follow me. I'll show you the way."

Willy trailed behind her down the passageway. The woman knocked at a mahogany door at the end and opened it, stepping aside to let him through.

As soon as he was through the door, Willy felt he were in another world. The floor was furnished with comfortable leather chairs, deep pile carpets and an antique desk. On the wall behind the desk hung a glass-fronted cabinet containing shot-guns and hunting rifles. Sir Mortimer was sprawled in a chair behind the desk. He was middle-aged man sporting a tweed bow-tie, not tall, rather rotund and with a podgy boyish face and thinning hair. He indicted for him to sit down and Willy perched on the edge of a chair. The furniture looked as if it were standing to attention; and the cushions looked so bosomy he thought they would probably resent being disturbed.

"Mrs Whippet tells me that I should be expecting you, but I don't recollect making any such arrangement." the man began.

Willy pushed out his cover story. "The Administer at the Refugee Relief Centre telephoned and was told I should come here." he said.

The man frowned. "One of my house staff took the call I expect, and never told me. Can't hang on to reliable people with the war on. Mrs Whippet said your name is Naarden. Are you a relation to Oscar Naarden?"

"I'm a niece."

"Oscar as been a dear friend of mine for years. How is he weathering life in Nazi occupied Holland?"

"I don't know, I've not seen him. But we spoke on the telephone briefly, and he told me that if I reached England I should try to find you. He said you would help me."

"Of course I'll help. Any relation of Oscar's deserves that. What kind of help do you need?"

"I have to find lodgings and employment."

The man pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You'd be better off in a town for that sort of thing. There's nothing much around here except farm work, and you look a little too delicate for that. What was your last job?"

"I helped in a bookshop. There were no books there printed in English of course, but I have attended university and I know quite a lot about art."

"Art!" Sir Mortimer rolled the word forlornly around in his mouth. "What else? Can you use a typewriter?"

"Yes, I'm very good with typing."

"Well, that's a start at least. You do have a Work Permit of course."

Willy looked genuinely mystified. "No one gave me such a thing."

The man tutted. "Dash those refugee relief people. I know they're busy, but to forget to provide you with a basic vital document is unforgivable. I shall have to have a word with someone at the Ministry of Labour to lay one on, and until we have something arranged you will stay here as a house guest. Show Mrs Whippet your Ration Book, she'll expect to have some of your food coupons."

At that moment a woman entered the room without knocking, moving across the floor with the grace of a dancer. Her thick brown hair was swept back from her forehead and layered along the side into a heavy mane. Her makeup was generously but expertly applied, and her eyes shone bright to betray an easy nature. She smiled at Sir Mortimer who was obviously someone very special to her.

Sir Mortimer greeted her with obvious delight. "May I introduce you to Deborah Findlay, my... er... lady companion. Deborah came over from New York with me before all the disagreeable stuff began here."

The woman grinned warmly. "Call me Debbie, honey. I'll only put up with being Deborah if Mortimer takes me to Buckingham Palace, which ain't likely."

The woman...Sir Mortimer's paramour... looked about twenty-five and had a wide mouth which puckered at the corners, hinting at a smile even when her expression was serious. But there was something about the angle of her cheeks and the line of her throat that Willy recognised as not belonging to a woman.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Debbie. And you must call me Willy. Everyone calls me Willy."

Debbie put a pensive fingertip to her chin. "This kid needs sorting out, Mortimer. Look at those cotton socks and scuffed shoes," She then gazed down at Willy with an expression of slight pity, "And if you don't mind me saying so honey, the rest of you looks like it's been done over with a garden rake."

Willy plucked at the collar of his coat. "I've been travelling a lot lately, but I have other things."

Debbie Findlay looked doubtful. "That suitcase of yours in the passage outside is hardly big enough for a toothbrush. But don't worry; I brought a whole mess of excess baggage with me when I moved over here and I can afford to share some with you."

"Are you hungry after your journey, Willy?" asked the man.

"Hungry? Yes, I am a little. But more than anything I'm tired. Is there somewhere I can sleep?"

The man's female companion took control at once. "Come with me. I'll show you what we've got."

"It ain't much," Debbie said leading the way up a set of creaking oak stairs, "I came here expecting a palace, and what I got was a big old dog kennel full of draughts and spooky housekeepers."

Willy smiled, for despite Debbie's clowning talk and loud American manner he judged her to be a rather warm kind of person, and the house had a sense of permanence and stability perfectly kept, the air thick with the smell of polishing wax.

The room he was shown to was quite small and included a fireplace in one wall, although no fire was lit. The furniture was unremarkable too, just a mirror, chest of drawers, a small closet and a bed. But what impressed Willy was how the bed linen was fastidiously tucked and squared, and just how clean the sheets were. It was a world to which he had been denied access for a long time; cosy, comfortable, respectable. Safe.

He took in the woman at his side called Deborah, to be called Debbie whenever possible. His eyes became riveted on her, almost to the point of rudeness. Her abundant, carefully dressed hair was dark with reddish lights; her face with a good straight nose was set above a large beautifully modelled mouth and a firm jawline. Her cheekbones were high, the outer ends of her eyebrows slanted slightly upwards and her flawless skin was a pale gold. And now he was sure. Everything had been well thought through. Those Secret Service people in Germany who had planned where he should go had cleverly selected the house of a man who enjoyed the company of world-class transvestites.

"You'll find Brascombe Manor operates like a second-class hotel." said Debbie, "All the necessaries are outside, down at the end of the landing."

Willy nodded. "I understand. I have lived in large houses such as this before."

"You have, huh! Are you a strayed Russian princess, or something?"

Willy sat on the bed and gave a weak smile. "Sometimes I don't know what I am."

Debbie paused, looking the newcomer up and down to appreciate what she saw, and patting him on the arm with cherry-red talons. "I know what you are. Your hands are slight, your fingers are graceful and your legs are demure, but you can't fool me, kid. Us kind of girls can pick each other out in a crowd, can't we?"

She went to the door, and winked. "Don't worry, I can keep a secret. Grab some shuteye. I'll make sure you don't miss out on dinner."

Later that day, following a long sleep, Willy returned from the bathroom with his torso covered by a dressing gown and his hair wrapped in a white bath towel. He found his bedroom door opened and Debbie Findlay standing inside. She was smelling of scent and was wearing an evening dress of purple-patterned silk and a mass of barbaric golden jewellery, while in her arms she was holding a pile of other items.

The wardrobe in the corner now contained a range of women's clothes, and as Debbie gestured towards them, she regarded Willy inquisitively. "I've brought some things for you to wear. Some may not be the right fit, but you look Size 10, and I'm way past that now. I should have thrown `em out ages ago."

Willy stood in the doorway, his face freshly scrubbed and rosy pink, feathery lashes sweeping his cheeks. "You are very kind."

"Think nothing of it. Can't have you going down the stairs looking like Pocahontas just out of the woods. Bombs may be falling and cities may be burning, but a girl still as to look her best. It's Saturday, and Mortimer has dinner-guests to night."

"Dinner! Oh, yes, I'm very hungry now."

"Good. You're in the right place. Mortimer holds the tenancies on most of the farms around here, so he can usually scrape up three courses for a meal, despite the food rationing. Sit down and I'll fix your hair."

"I must first put on some clothes." he flustered.

"No hurry on my account. You've got nothing to hide and plenty to look at." She grinned at him. "Anyway, you look perfectly decent. That dressing gown covers more of you than most people would wish."

Pulling Willy onto a chair she began running a comb through shoulder-length blond hair. It was still damp as she put it up for him, persuading the thick waves into an elegant chignon which made the most of his elfin features and big eyes.

"Will there be many guests tonight?" Willy asked.

"Some half dozen, I guess, mostly men." "What do I say to them?"

"My advice is just be pleasant and don't try to be too clever. Just talk about parties and fashion and jewels. That's what men want to hear. Otherwise they get to thinking you're smarter than they are and you'll scare `em."

"Sir Mortimer is a nice man."

"He's an OK guy. Helluv a shy one with girls. I think he only invited me to come to England because he couldn't think of anything else to say to me." The transvestite laughed. "I guess I'm being a little unfair. Mortimer rates me rather high in his affection."

Willy went to the side of the room, threw off the dressing gown, and quickly slipped on the fragile top that Debbie had brought for him. It clung to him like a second skin and was probably the sexiest thing he'd ever worn. His companion noticed that he was slim with small jutting breasts that blended with a rather small frame, and he had a small face and big blue eyes, delicate facial bone structure and smooth skin. Sleeping Beauty's prettier little sister, she thought.

She cocked her head for a better look at his face. "You're going to look sensational." she said softly, the husky quality of her voice telling him she meant every word. "Every eye is going to be on you tonight."

Willy looked faintly alarmed. "I do hope not." He was not unaware that he was already being closely studied, but being what he was he had taken the precaution of wearing pants both to and from the bathroom, and the lower reaches of him seemed of no interest to Debbie. Not yet, anyway.

She returned to the pile of clothing she had brought with her. "Say, how about a pair of these?"

Willy's eyes opened in wonder. "Nylon stockings! I've seen people wearing them but I've never owned any."

"They're fifteen denier, an' that kind ain't been available long, not even in the States."

Willy sat on the bed, then he carefully rolled up an item of hosiery, pointed his toes and slid it up over a shapely smooth leg, slowly, so that he could enjoy the cool sensation. "The term `nylon' is an abbreviation of New York-London, isn't it? That speaks of close collaboration, but Americans share no close attachment with the English in the war against Hitler."

Debbie shook her head. "Ach! The President would like to get more involved, but he can't carry Congress with him. Heck! You Europeans have been banging each other over the head ever since you first learned about swinging sticks, so most yanks would rather leave you to get on with it." Fiddling with the silver backed hairbrush she still held in her hand she then added. "As a matter of fact I think the British have had it, actually. Ambassador Kennedy said it last year and nothing much as changed since then. They've left it too late to do anything worthwhile. Everyone thinks the same except some politicians who should have stood up to Hitler years ago. But here we are and I suppose we've just got to make the best of it."

Indicating Willy's legs she reverted to the theme of his stockings. "Make sure the back seams are straight on those things when you put them on, and take care not to snag `em or they'll run like a bitch on heat."

Willy flapped the remaining stocking in his hand and displayed an expression of puzzlement. "They run by themselves! How is that possible?"

Debbie wafted a dismissive hand and turned away towards the door. "Forget what I just said. Life ain't long enough to explain everything." As she reached the door she swung about and caught Willy rocking his face behind his hands and laughing uncontrollably.

"You crazy Dutch cheese. You knew what I meant all along."

Willy descended the stairs sometime later with a degree of trepidation. He had tricked his way into Sir Mortimer Brascombe's home in the guise of a girl, but whether he could fool all the guests gathered for the evening meal was another matter.

If he didn't succeed it would be no fault of his outward appearance, he knew. The outfit Debbie had given him was comprised of an ivory-coloured top with shoe-string straps that showed off the bare slope of his narrow shoulders, and he had a salmon-coloured silk tube for a skirt. His golden hair hung down in ringlets, while glass ear rings in the shape of two crystal pear-drops hung down from his delicate ears. On his bare arms Florentine gold bangles gleamed with satinato lustre. The whole made the most of his small breasts, round bottom and lean curvaceous legs, and there was not the least evidence anywhere that he was not a girl.

Even so, he had hoped for a little time to find his feet in his new situation before having to confront so many people. Mentally he shook himself, then took a deep breath and put on his best smile to join the assembled company.

Sir Mortimer and Deborah were in conversation with a guest; he counted one woman and four men, and he made towards a face that he recognised from earlier in the day. Jeremy de Vere was handsome, smiling, and attired in an immaculately tailored dinner suit.

They had barely exchanged greetings before Sir Mortimer introduced someone else and a man called Arnold Knapp and his wife Brenda aligned themselves in front of him. They were people from a large industrial city descending upon a much smaller place, taking a break well away from the centre of things. They were both about thirty, and seemed rather alike. Not that they closely resembled each other... she was slender with a good figure, but beneath her make up, her face was hard and tired. She had thin features with high arched eyebrows and hair that was short and very curly, and she wore a dark, demure dress with a lace collar. Her husband sported a neat pencil-line moustache and he looked slick and extremely self-satisfied in his dinner suit. But although unlike in appearance they clearly suggested the same kind of life and the same outlook. In a weird synchronisation they moved together like two people with one mind.

Alarmingly for Willy, who had become suspicious of officialdom, he was also introduced to two army officers in khaki-brown uniforms. In the hide-and-seek world he had inhabited after leaving Ravenskopf he had become nervous of military uniforms, but he barely had time to hear the names of the soldiers before the housekeeper gave a bang on a gong and Sir Mortimer ushered them to a dining table laid up with crystal and silver and good quality starched napery.

A number of servants were employed in the house, none of them young. There was a cook and a couple of old dears past retirement age who did most other things, but under Mrs Whippet's keen supervision they remained unobtrusive, hidden in the background and on the wings of life. They seemed to fade into the wallpaper.

He had expected to endure a difficult evening, because whenever asked about himself he could only tell lies. To his relief everyone accepted his story of being a desperate refugee, and it was important that they did, because for the work he had to do everyone had to accept him just as that.

For the first part of the meal he remained silent, just nodding with his mouth full and letting the others talk, but eventually Arnold Knapp pinned him with his eyes. "Sir Mortimer tells me you recently escaped out of Holland. A tricky business with the Germans being so watchful."

"It wasn't easy," Willy told him, "A trawler brought me over when the weather was thick with cloud. I was lucky."

"Glad to get away from under the Nazi jackboot, I dare say. Glad to be in a country where one can live normally, eh?"

Willy frowned slightly. "No one is living normally in a country where people are being bombed all the time, and where all the young men have to wear a uniform, Mr Knapp." He glanced at the two soldiers and then back at him. "You are not an old man, but you don't wear a uniform."

"I'm exempt from military service, my dear. I'm in a reserved occupation."

His wife leaned forward wearing a tight smile. "Arnold owns a firm that manufactures steel rivets. Such things are vital to the war effort." she explained, without allowing her smile to slip.

Arnold sucked his teeth as he manfully scooped the last potato from the tureen in the centre of the table. "I'd like to help in a more direct way, of course, but these days everyone must do as they're told."

Willy's eyes moved along the table until the man called Jeremy de Vere offered a disarming smile and threw up his hands. "I'm with the Foreign Office, so I'm not in uniform either." he declared in a strong voice, "The government keeps me where I am too, and without being a braggart I believe people such as Sir Mortimer are glad of that. They find my opinions useful."

Willy accepted the explanation from him with surprising good grace, and he wondered why. What was so special about him? he questioned. Well, for one thing he was wearing his dinner suit with unselfconscious ease, and it fitted him somehow as though it was part of him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to be sensible, and then opened them again, and moved his gaze onto the two soldiers. "You each have a medal ribbon sewn over your pocket. You must both be very brave." he said. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember your names."

One of them, a genial, athletic looking young man with a bristling moustache and a ready smile, completed the introductions. "I'm Toby Troughton, Captain Toby Troughton," he said, "And the bounder sitting next to me is Captain Jimmy Hyde. Jimmy is Sir Mortimer's nephew. I'm just a camp-follower."

Toby was a caricature of an Englishman with a form of affected speech that would have appealed to upper-class English schoolgirls, but the other man, Jimmy Hyde, was altogether different; more brooding and more sombre. He was dark-haired and his face was cheekboney like in a fifteenth century Flemish portrait as depicted by Memling or Van Eyck, and although it was pleasant enough to be attractive, his eyes were another matter. They were fearsome, as if they were in a temper.

Jimmy Hyde gave a somewhat disparaging glance at the ribbon of decoration on his jacket. "France, last year!" he explained, "That was a bloody mess in every sense. Our army that went there was tiny compared to the one France herself mobilised, so it was put under the direction of their High Command."

"They made a complete ash of things." explained Toby Troughton. "They spread everything they had in a thin line along the frontier, all the way from the Channel to the Swiss border... just as if they were going to fight the Great War all over again...and they left nothing as a Central Reserve to reinforce places where Jerry may break through. Of course they did break through. They came through the Ardennes which everyone believed was an impossible way in, and we ended up needing the Navy pull us off the beaches at Dunkirk." He paused to smile disarmingly. "Still, someone's got to fight the wars the older ones get us into, haven't they? And we can't have you girls doing it, can we? Fighting our battles for us."

Willy offered a nod of sympathy, but with his confidence blooming he couldn't resist a criticism. "Your country went to war unprepared. Your politicians should have been wiser and sent a larger army. Even now your country is still not yet halfway prepared. Not even a quarter ready."

"Don't you think so?" put in Brenda Knapp, "Not even with all the rehearsals and drills people are doing?"

"You may practise as much as you wish, but if you don't have the ships the planes and the guns you cannot expect victory."

Jimmy Hyde's mouth curled down slightly. "From the time of Oliver Cromwell the British have bucked at having a large army on their own soil. Napoleon called us a nation of shopkeepers, and maybe he was right. The profession of soldier is derided here, and the expense that an army incurs is resented, until there's a war, and then everyone wants to know why we weren't ready."

"Things are getting better. Mustn't be so gloomy and doomy." said Sir Mortimer, trying to introduce some optimism, "When France fell the big wet-ditch of the Channel gave us a second chance. We have a larger army under training now and the Dominions are assisting. Help is coming from Canada, South Africa and India, and the Anzac's are with us again. Roosevelt and Churchill have a good relationship and America is providing massive amounts of material aid."

Having finished eating Willy positioned his knife and fork neatly together on the centre of his dinner plate. "I am a foreigner here and perhaps I know nothing, but I feel you are only making the problem bigger with your building up of forces. The best solution surely would be to make peace."

Arnold Knapp chewed thoughtlessly on his last mouthful of main course. "Not a bad idea. Damned nuisance the Riviera being out of bounds at Easter."

The more earnest Captain Hyde dug in again. "To make peace under Hitler's terms would make us just one more of his lackeys. He would expect us to follow his aggressive policies. He would subvert our way of government and install a Fascist Police State much like he as in his own country. More than that, he would expect us to join in his war against the communists, so there would actually be no peace."

Willy poked his spoon at the stewed plums and custard that had been placed in front of him. "You're surmising a great deal, Captain Hyde, and you're only guessing at what might happen. There could be a completely different outcome to the one you expect."

The man stared back at him with eyes of vibrant penetration. They conveyed an impression of shrewdness, while his dark face, thin and hollow-cheeked, became overtly hostile. "You have a strong accent, Miss Naarden. More German than Dutch I'd say."

Willy had long been ready for an observation like that. His attitude to unsympathetic people, he had decided, should be whimsical and slightly roguish. Sitting back and composing himself he brushed the dark wings of his eyebrows with a delicate fingertip. "I was raised in Venlo on the Dutch-German border, Captain Hyde. Both language and accents tend to be rather fluid in such places."

Observing the sudden build-up of tension Sir Mortimer sought a way to soothe it. "Yes, well, we've no coffee I'm afraid, so shall we adjourn and take a drink of another kind in the drawing room? We can play cards or play music or something."

When Debbie led the way into the drawing room he indicated a full figure portrait of a distinguished looking man wearing a solar topi gracing the wall above the fireplace. "That's Sir Neville, Mortimer's grandfather." she told Willy, "He was Military Governor of some place called Baluchistan for a while. Mortimer's folks have all been soldiers since way back and he broke the mould when he favoured politics."

"Mortimer never wished to be a soldier?"

"Nope, he's dead against killing anything... if you'll excuse the pun. Those hunting rifles in the Gun Room haven't been out of their cabinet since his father died." She nodded up at the portrait. "Rather a fine painting, ain't it?"

Willy cocked his head left and right. "Hmm, it's a picture but it's not really art." His eyes settled on a smaller postimpressionist painting further along the wall. "That one is better, it's a Braque. He exhibited in London early in the century along with Cezanne and Picasso, so I expect that's when it was acquired."

Debbie looked at the collection of illogical shapes and designs being referred to, and then glanced sideways with a slight air of bafflement.

Willy continued unabashed. "All the best artists practised pointillism at that time. You see how the small dabs of colour mix together to produce an intense effect. Quite sensational isn't it?"

Suddenly having had enough of art Deborah turned him about, and when Willy surveyed the spacious surroundings of the drawing room he was amazed at the unexpected clutter. The floral patterns of the couch, wallpaper and rugs clashed in a riot that was almost audible, and added to that was the innumerable pieces of bric-a-brac that dotted every surface. Sir Mortimer's study was furnished sparingly with functional items, and this was only something a woman could contrive. A frivolous, feminine woman such as Deborah Findlay.

"Come on," she urged Willy. "Let's you and me liven this joint up before Mortimer sets his mind on some boring game of bridge or something. Can you jitterbug?"

Puzzled, Willy shook his head. "What is a jitterbug?"

"It's a dance. Nobody does it here yet, but I'll show you how."

Everyone else was grouped to the side of the room sipping drinks and talking. Debbie stalked across to a box full of large vinyl discs, cranked up a Victrola gramophone that stood against the wall, and set some music playing.

Then suddenly they were dancing. Just Willy Froehlich and Debbie were dancing in the middle of the floor. Not an awkward one-two-three and stepping on toes, but gyrating to the beat of fast swing music and moving together in fast bouncy movements. Willy loved it, and he responded with uncontrolled exuberance and delightful high contralto laughter when Debbie twisted and swung her hips, then looking like she'd swallowed the tune, grasped his hand and lifted it over his head before swirling him around.

When the music played out Brenda Knapp gave everyone an icy look and took control of the gramophone. She made a couple of vitriolic comments about jungle music' and civilisation' before saying that most people still preferred rhythms that are more sedate. She looked so ferocious at that moment that even Debbie declined to challenge her.

Selecting some slower music to her own taste she put the stylus to it and demanded her husband dance with her. Jeremy de Vere asked Debbie to join in, and for some reason known only to him the sour looking Captain Hyde took Willy out into the middle of the room and led him through a clumsy two-step, holding him at arms length and moving like someone with arthritic joints. For a moment Willy thought he was acting the clown, nearly treading on his toes all the time. But when he saw the determined expression on his face, he realised that he was just a poor dancer who had never had much practise.

"I'm not much good at this. Never have been." he admitted. "But I wanted to say sorry for being so sharp with you earlier. I'm afraid you caught me on the end cusp of a black mood."

Willy noticed that his eyes had lost their antagonistic glare and were now shiny and as brown as coconuts. "Ah, I thought so... I could practically smell the paintwork blistering under your bad temper. I hope your moods aren't too frequent, Captain Hyde."

"I'm afraid they are fairly frequent, Miss Naarden. It's nothing unusual these days. Prime Minister Churchill suffers dark moods that he terms `black dog', so at least I'm in good company."

The end of the music jolted Willy back to awareness and suddenly the awkward soldier had disappeared and he found himself looking up into the face of Jeremy de Vere, a different kind of man, a sophisticated, teasing man who was completely at ease. The man was already grinning jovially.

"If your dance programme for the evening is not yet fully booked, may I claim the next number for myself, Miss Naarden?"

A tiny shudder ripped through Willy. The man's teeth gleamed nearly as white as his shirt front, and he was sure there was real muscle beneath all his smart tailoring as well. And when music began to play again Willy found no awkwardness this time. Jeremy danced wonderfully, rising on his toes and sweeping him around. He was soon smoothly enfolded in the man's arms, swaying to the melody and counter-melody of a soft, lilting ballad about a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square. Now he knew what it was like to dance with a really good partner. He felt like he was floating on air half the time, so perfectly did Jeremy hold and guide him.

Surreptitiously and by degrees he accessed his partner. He had hair that was so blond it was almost white, but it was his eyes they fascinated most. His stunning blue eyes shone like those of a baby and were an almost innocent feature for a worldly man, but they had an unsettling habit of looking into his own gaze as if he could see the soul hiding there. It was like he was being X-rayed, and there was not a single thing that man didn't already know about him. Why did he look at him like that? Suspicion, maybe! Doubt, no; he was confident and nothing would rattle such ironclad composure.

Pink cheeked he realised that Jeremy's incisive gaze had finished sweeping and was now fixed on his mouth. He felt his lips start to part, as though they were readying for a kiss and hurriedly he closed them, his face burning.

Willy danced with all the men that evening, with the exception of Arnold Knapp whose wife refused to allow her husband dance with anyone but herself, and when the dancing palled Sir Mortimer seated himself before a Bechstein baby grand and played some pieces from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, explaining that if he became more serious he was likely to drift off into the works of German composers, and he felt that would be quite unpatriotic.

Apparently there was a military encampment a few miles away at a place called Foxley Wood, and Mortimer's nephew and his friend left to return there at the end of the evening. Arnold and Brenda Knapp spent most of their time in Birmingham, but had rented a holiday cottage nearby, and when the soldiers had gone Brenda began urging her husband towards the big front door.

Everyone gathered outside at the top of the steps to wish them farewell. "Byee!" said Brenda, with just a hint of something cow-like in her expression.

Willy waved back cheerily. "Goodnight, Arnold. Goodnight, Brenda. Keep a hand on your h'penny."

Brenda glowered back at him, looking like she'd just swallowed a poker, and when the front door had been closed Debbie pulled Willy to one side. "Someone as to tell you not to say that."

"Is it bad?"

"It's a slang expression around here warning a lady to guard her virtue. You know... to keep her hand on it."

"Oh, I see," said Willy with a shrug, "In that case I shouldn't have said it. Brenda probably as no virtue left worth guarding."

The following morning Willy was still confused, still nervous in his new surroundings, yet the change in him had become evident: his gestures possessed a greater conviction, which suggested he was beginning to feel more comfortable. Little things like the sure way he picked up a cup of tea, the certainty with which he told everyone he didn't take sugar or milk with it, were very significant. He was considered a peculiarity and a spectacular and charming rogue, but everyone he chanced to meet seemed to love his unconventionality. His presence seemed to light up a room when he entered, even if his unguarded observations did sometimes make people want to roll up their eyes.

Of course his conversation was in part still somewhat stilted and broken and he spoke hesitantly sometimes, as if feeling his way through the English language, yet his vocabulary and his powers of understanding were noticeably acute, and he giggled happily, girlishly proud of those achievements.

Sir Mortimer and Jeremy de Vere were due to go to London the following day, and although things were so sublime and pleasant at Brascombe Manor that one could have forgotten about the horrors of war, Willy Froehlich couldn't forget. In the evening, believing he had established himself well enough by then, he decided to make his first approach to Sir Mortimer.

He needed to be careful. That horrible Mrs Whippet who ran the household crept about, watching, listening, intent on knowing things. She was one of those working class women who, when entrusted with some authority, mistrusted the working classes. "They are not so bad if you know how to deal with them," she had been heard to say in the same condescending tone she used when talking of pet animals.

He was sure she had searched his room, wanting to discredit him and see him ejected from the house, but he was happily safe despite such inspections. He carried with him no wireless transmitter, no codebook or any incriminating documents. There was nothing more evil in his possession than a couple of oft read Dutch classics; a book by Louis Couperus and Multatuli's `Max Havelaar'. He had nothing with which to carry out his allotted task but his own personal resources.

The door to the Gun Room was open and Sir Mortimer was seated behind his desk consulting some paperwork when Willy found him, and he fiddled with his hair and applied a touch of lipstick before he entered. "Excuse me, Sir Mortimer. I've come across some English words that puzzle me. Do you have a bilingual dictionary I could refer to?"

Mortimer looked up briefly. His normally well-fed, relaxed and rosy-cheeked face looked, not frightened or worried, but extremely concerned. "Not Dutch-English." he said, "I have a German-English thing I picked up some time ago. It's on my book-shelf."

"That will do fine. German I understand well enough." Willy went over to the book shelf and peeped over his shoulder. "You are busy this evening."

"Yes," he said, "I was just going over the latest shipping figures. A substantial part of our war effort relies on the cargoes we receive from America, and the losses due to U-boat action in mid-Atlantic and the Western Approaches are very grave." He shook his head sadly. "We've lost sixteen hundred merchant ships since the war began, and a good many brave men have lost their lives trying to bring them here. It's unsustainable. I shall have to raise the matter at Prime Minister's Question's next week."

Willy took the book he'd requested and went across to the desk, weighing his words carefully, not wanting to give the impression of knowing too much or seeking too much immediately. "I would like to say something to you. Would you mind?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "If it's urgent, you should. You look like you're going to burst, so talk up. I'll listen, but I've things to do at the same time, if you don't object."

It was awkward to speak to him while he was bent over his desk opening and shutting drawers. He kept looking at the clock too, which was hardly encouragement. Willy drew a deep breath. "Uncle Oscar mentioned that you once admired Adolph Hitler. Is that true?"

Mortimer stopped fiddling around and there was a strained silence before he replied. "I attended the Berlin Olympics in '36. In those days a great many of us admired him. His remedies for things were sometimes rather harsh, but his country was on its back when he took control and he pulled it up by its boot-straps and made it function properly again."

"I understand that is probably true," Willy said, "And when Britain declared war on him you became unhappy and allied yourself with a `peace-movement'."

The man shuffled uncomfortably. "Steady on, Willy. I don't know how you discovered that, unless your Uncle Oscar told you that too, but one doesn't admit to those kinds of things these days. Even in a democracy there are limits to what will be tolerated during a war. The people that elected me didn't do so because I'm a defeatist."

"You are not a defeatist, you're a pacifist."

"Same thing to most people these days." he offered a slightly glum expression. "Since Churchill took over the reins from Chamberlain everything as been sewn up. The Opposition Parties are in coalition with the government, and the running of the war is the province of a hand-picked War Cabinet. People like me don't have a voice anyone will listen to anymore."

"You should speak to the poor seamen who risk their lives on the oceans, and you should ask the common people, do they want peace or do they enjoy being bombed in their homes every night?"

Mortimer smiled grimly. "You have a simplistic way of looking at things, Willy. Anyway, there is no `peace movement' as such any longer; there is no cohesion amongst those that think as I do. We all hate the war but we exist as individuals."

Willy turned and gazed at a spectacularly morbid Piranesi print of dungeons hanging on the wall. "I hate war too, but unlike you I know no influential people. When you go to London you should speak with your friends and arrange to form a group. It's only because you all live separate lives that you feel so vulnerable. There will be others who remain silent for their fear of being ostracised. Handled with skill such a group could compel Churchill to alter his attitudes and seek conciliation with Hitler. "This war creates such misery for everyone. Isn't it worth at least trying to bring an end to it?"

Sir Mortimer's initial emotion on hearing this was one of anger, and his first inclination was to rebuff what Willy said out of hand. Just who did this flighty little madam from the continent think she was, telling him, a distinguished and respected Member of the House of Commons what he should and shouldn't be doing? How dare she presume to have a better understanding of world events and English politics than he had? She was a madhat, idealistic undergraduate like so many her age, and she had recently fled her home and was destitute. Out of pity and the need to uphold credibility with an old friend he had given her lodgings for a few days, but her outlandish remonstration was a damned impolite way of thanking him for his generosity.

He pulled himself back on the verge of making a sharp reply when he suddenly realised that she had just summed up the very sentiments he'd felt himself a number of times over the past two years but had never had the moral courage to attempt implementing. Perhaps it was not such a bad thing after all to have someone around to prick his conscience and give him a little push now and again.

He slanted a look at her, shifting in his seat to take it all in. The girl's blue eyes, beneath thick, dark lashes, were alert. "I suppose you have a point." he replied with only slight enthusiasm. He lowered his eyes, joined his hands and placed his fingertips on his lips. His face took on an expression of harshness and sadness has he thought things over. "I suppose one should at least try to do something. Sometimes a man must do what he believes is right, even when so many others may disagree with him. I know a dozen people I could contact who think the same as I do. Some of them will know others that may be interested."

Having set the wheels of thought moving in the man's mind Willy was content to leave it at that for the time being. But Sir Mortimer was as yet too faint-hearted to be trusted to continue without encouragement, and he knew he would soon need to return.

Willy enjoyed being a guest at Brascombe Manor. The old house felt warm and lived in, and the next day when he strolled in the grounds with Deborah he made it clear he wished to see everything. He loved the birds foraging in the trees and the rascally rabbits scurrying in the paddocks, and he adored the rural view of the fields beyond with their cattle and sheep. Most of all he loved the genuine enthusiasm of Deborah to share it all with him. He listened attentively to her descriptions of local wildlife and shrieked with giggles when they chased each other and hid in the bushes like schoolchildren

Left with Debbie as his only companion he became alive to her humour, and when he laughed, his whole being seemed to sing with joy. To the American it seemed the house guest was coming alive before her gaze, and the ability to make someone laugh she never underrated.

In the centre of a sunken garden that was long past its best show they came upon an incomplete brick structure. "Mortimer's air raid shelter." explained Debbie, "He decided to have one built last year, but then gave up on the idea."

Willy expressed surprise that the area didn't attract any of Reichsmarschall Goering's Luftwaffe bombers.

"We sometimes hear squadrons of them going over flying high in the night sky, but they don't bother us here." Debbie told him. She explained that suitable targets were widely scattered in rural Essex, and German aircraft knew they could inflict greater damage if they visited the big industrial towns further inland.

"Best to blackout your bedroom windows at night though," she advised, "When those sons-of-bitches get lost they drop their bombs on any point of light they see rather than carry them home. If Mortimer would loan me a duck-gun, the bastards would all end up dead-meat. What do you say, Willy?"

Willy sorrowfully rocked his head from side to side. "Oh... I knew a German pilot once, and he was a good man."

Debbie treated that comment with more than a little cynicism. "Don't go spreading those kinds of stories around, missy. Folk in these parts think the only good German is a dead one."

Willy frowned at the flippancy. He tried not to think of Eduard Dietz whenever possible, but when reminded of him his jaw tensed and involuntary tears filled his eyes. "The man I knew was handsome, he was gentle, he loved me and never tried to take advantage of my naiveté. He was the best thing that ever happened in my life. But he was killed early in the war."

Suddenly aware of her incaution Debbie winced at the unintended cruelty she'd inflicted. "That's a pretty good list, sweetie. I'll remember it. Have you a photograph of this fella'?"

Willy shook his head. "I had one once, but it was taken from me."

"That's a shame. We could have framed it and given it a place of honour somewhere."

Willy sniffed unhappily, and all Debbie could do was curse her own insensibility and stroke the slender, vulnerable young neck that leaned against her.

In the afternoon it rained and they retreated to the drawing room where Deborah gave Willy another lesson in dancing the jitterbug. She spent the entire afternoon teaching him the basic steps, and found the pupil to be an avid learner. Willy had cheered up by then and he delighted in the rapid moving pace and seemed to fall in naturally with the jiving steps. It seemed like dream. That presence, that invigorating music in all its moods was not to be resisted. The room had a surreal quality at that moment, heightened by several ornate gilt-framed mirrors on the walls that reflected the two of them back and forth, increasing their numbers into infinity and making them a mere element in a rolling, surging multitude.

Being a leggy five foot ten and having the advantage in height Debbie went across to where Willy had retreated and stared down into his liquid blue eyes, unable to break a connection that suddenly crackled like a high-tension wire between them. The new arrivals lips, slightly swollen and as plush as pillows, were trembling. His skin was the purest cream. She couldn't help wondering what it would be like to kiss him. An uncontrollable urge washed over her and she felt her body drawn towards his. Willy winced as a gentle stroke was administered to his face. "You're beautiful." she purred into his ear.

"So are you." he responded.

Debbie laughed. The cones of her breasts were conspicuously evident through her tight dress, and she was clearly aware of the fact. "You're being kind, but if I invited you to touch me, I don't think you would."

Willy could only shake his head. "You are Sir Mortimer's partner, are you not?"

Debbie cocked one of her exquisite eyebrows for greater effect and shimmied her curvy hips suggestively from side to side. "Sure, Mortimer's a honeybunch an' I love the guy to bits. But a little harmless smooch on the side with someone like you won't hurt that relationship."

The American noticed that even though he wore no bra Willy's chest had a certain pert rise to it that could push out the front of a blouse and give men the impression of an intriguing bosom. It certainly intrigued her. "I was truly proper, y'know, once upon a time. As proper as can be. Then the fella' I lived with went an' died on me, poor soul, and I took up with Mortimer. He wants me to be completely decent of course, but oh, la-la-la, that's not for me."

"No," Willy said, "Not for you."

"It's better with the war. God forgive me for saying it, but we have to live tonight for tomorrow we die."

She moved very fast; she was beside him almost before she had finished speaking. Willy hadn't bargained for it and she was far too near for his peace of mind, and that peace was wholly shattered when her hand moved of its own volition, coming to rest on the she-boys silken neck as her face moved forward and kissed him quite fiercely on the mouth with warm lipsticked lips.

She brushed her mouth gently across his and found the touch intensely sensual. When Willy's lips parted slightly to protest, she took advantage and covered his mouth to slowly sample the moist warmth of his tongue. To her surprise, he allowed him to continue the tender assault and she deepened the kiss, the wave of heat in her body in danger of becoming a raging tide. She reacted to the intimate pressure of his body against hers, and his attributes of sex began to swell wantonly as a totally familiar desire to grind his hips against him pulsed with increasing intensity.

Gradually, through her hazy passion, she realised that Willy wasn't responding. His hands rested limply at his sides and his body stood unmoving before her, a pillar of reticence.

The taller figure dragged itself back and stepped away. "You know, you should moan a little when you get tongue in your mouth, and you could try mauling my tits a little bit too. Mortimer never does enough of that."

Willy still didn't respond and Debbie looked at him with a look that wasn't unkind but failed to hide a trace of disappointment. "Shit! I get it. You can only get hot for guys in trousers. Just my goddamn luck."

"I'm sorry if I displease you, but I can't change. I am what I am."

Deborah held up a hand of peace. "Sure, I understand that and I accept it. I ain't into trying to change the world or anyone in it." After a moment she added with a touch of an appeal, "Not even a little bit of hand-jobbing?"

Willy said nothing; he nodded slowly, then converted the nod into a negative shake that was absolute.

For a moment they looked at each other, then as abruptly as it had disappeared, the smile came back to Deborah's face. In resignation she turned to the gramophone. "Come on. We'll put on another record. Let's dance."

On Wednesday morning at breakfast Deborah told him they were due for a trip out. "No arguments," she said, "we're going into Nuttsford."

At the end of the drive they caught a bus into town. Nuttsford was a market town just a few miles distant from the manor that stood beside a small sinuous river in which a line of ducks paddled up and down in convoy. They peered down into the cold grey water from a small humpbacked bridge as they crossed it, then Debbie turned into a narrow street which led to a square lined with old red brick shops and houses. Everything seemed quite normal until one saw the sandbag barricade outside the police station and noticed, not withstanding that the town had never had a bomb dropped near it, that every windowpane in sight was criss-crossed with black tape.

In front of one shop she stopped. "There it is." She was admiring a hat in a window, a divine creation topped with flowers and silk pom poms. Clothing was rationed. Make-do-and-mend was a cliché of government policy in those austere times, and the scarcity of material and the number of clothing coupons needed to acquire new outfits almost made them a luxury. But that hat was something Debbie had set her heart on, and she had to have it.

While she was in the shop Willy watched the passers-by on the pavements, the women wrapped with scarves pulling against the wind, the children in woollen pullovers and small coats, their cute faces, blue eyed and pink cheeked. The older men looked solid in topcoats and hats, while all the younger ones seemed to be wearing some version of a uniform.

They had a lovely time window shopping afterwards, and made some more modest purchases. He discovered that fruit and vegetables were not rationed, but the trick was to know what was in season and where to find a shop that had a supply of what you wanted. Deborah happily left the cook and Mrs Whippet to figure out those kinds of things.

Willy wondered if they had any time to sit down, but then they went into a tearoom that had frilly curtains and doilies on the tables and where everything was too small, and they settled among a clatter of dishes and quiet café chatter. The room was richly carpeted in red, nicely furnished too, garnished with flowers and warmed by a coal fire burning economically low, and the chairs were comfortable, dignified and upholstered in pleasing damask in various shades of blue.

Willy was only half finished with a cup of weak tea when he gasped inwardly. It was impossible. It was against every chance and all the odds, but there was Tom Soames, sitting at the little table opposite. It was not something he was prepared for, not something to which he had given a thought, that on a large island that held fifty million people he should meet up with someone he had known in Heidelberg three years previously.

He stared at him. He could help it. Tom looked younger than he thought he should, but not as lean, so perhaps leanness had been an illusion in his mind, but the bone-structure of his face he remembered, and he still had the dark, intriguing eyebrows of an Old Testament prophet. He was one of those well-groomed, clean-cut men with a quick, witty way of talking that girls...and boys, were drawn to despite of their better judgement.

Tom Soames had been one of his lovers during his wild time at university, and the sudden recollection of those times was like a benison... summer evenings, long and cool, and winter ones dark and cosy, with the mist rising off the river. Nothing had been sacred in those days. The fly on a boy's trousers was never spared, the vulnerability of a young backside always pillaged. But sweet as those memories were he realised that meeting Tom now would be a fatal mistake.

Tom was wearing the blue-grey uniform of a British air force officer now instead of the crumpled slacks and jerseys he'd favoured before, but there was no doubt it was him. Willy froze his own face to prevent it revealing his surprise, and he shuffled his chair sideways slightly to disguise his profile.

Out of the corner of one eye he noticed Tom was gazing steadily at him and showing an element of puzzlement, but he was obviously unsure of what he was seeing. He couldn't possibly recognise him, decided Willy; Wilhelm Froehlich hadn't been a girl when they had known each other. Not one in lipstick and skirts anyway. And three years had passed since they had last seen each other.

Nevertheless when he and Debbie got up to leave, Tom got up too. There was something about the odd way he persisted in looking that was unnerving and Willy felt a shudder of apprehension run through his body.

Tom seemed a little uncomfortable making an approach, but he took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Excuse me," he said, looking directly at Willy. "Your face is familiar. You remind me of someone. Could it be we have met before?"

Willy's eyes opened wide with alarm, he blushed, shook his head furiously and made straight for the door.

Deborah winked at the young man. "Nice try, sonny. But you'd do better thinking up a more original line next time before you stop a girl."

Sir Mortimer arrived home on the Friday evening, driving the big Daimler touring car that was used for the short journeys to and from the railway station in Nuttsford. Petrol was rationed, but anyway the journey into London was more easily done on the train. As the car rounded the last curve of the lane and he saw the sweep of wooded lawns with the chimneys of the manor house rising behind he felt a nostalgic lump in his throat. He loved that place. Everything creaked and everything was crooked, but he loved its old brickwork and rambling corridors, he loved its weathered eaves and steps worn concave from years of use. Above all he loved the sense that it provided the timeless haven of stability and ease that was England.

He found himself beginning to smile in pleasant anticipation as he waited for Mrs Whippet to open the front door. There was always something delightful in returning home. It was a fact, because Deborah would be there.

But not that night. Deborah was out in the garden watering something, so he shrugged off his topcoat and started across the hall towards the Gun Room, his briefcase in his hand. When he saw Willy nearby he stopped. "No luck with a Work Permit for you yet, civil servants are an impossible breed who refuse to be hurried. But come inside, I have some interesting news of a different kind."

When the door was closed firmly and Willy stood still and waited while Mortimer mustered up a confidential quiet tone.

"What we talked about at the weekend, you know, about how the war was a mistake and how this country needs to change direction... well, there is just a possibility something like that could happen soon."

He paused to rub his hands together. "There is no doubt that there is grave disquiet, both in the country and in Parliament at the moment. Some prominent people are being very critical of the way Churchill is handling things. The fiasco of the Norwegian campaign for instance, and then the debacle in Greece and the loss of Crete. And now there is the uncertain situation in North Africa. We made the mistake of allowing Churchill to combine the office of Prime Minister with that of Minister of Defence, and although he did some stout work in 1940 and throughout the Blitz, the feeling is the old horse is blown and his judgement is faulty."

When he leaned forward there was a light of excitement in his eyes. "This could be the right time to make a move. I've been talking with friends, and there is some agreement that we should lay down a motion of No Confidence in the leadership."

"Would that bring peace?"

"Not right away. Not immediately. But it would get rid of Churchill and that alone would ease the way for negotiations. A complete end to hostilities would be a real possibility with him out of the way."

"If that is true you must proceed quickly," urged Willy, "Every moment you delay costs people their lives."

That evening Jeremy de Vere arrived wearing his favourite expression of nonchalance, effortlessly charming and outwardly looking every inch the unconcerned debonair man about town, but apart from being very polite he showed no interest in Willy and spent the entire time talking with Sir Mortimer.

The following day Jimmy Hyde and his friend Toby came to lunch and when they had eaten everyone participated in the English Sunday ritual of taking a walk in the countryside. Once again Debbie helped out with the right clothes and put him in a tweed suit of a pleasing russet colour and a pair of brogue shoes. The shoes were rather too big, but he managed to solve the problem with some paper stuffing and by lacing them tight. He made up his pretty face with care, and did his hair in a neat, smooth coil on the back of his head before he joined everyone else outside.

Autumn was an exhilarating season for Willy Froehlich despite the bleakness of winter it heralded. Wrapped in the trench coat that had been cleaned and pressed by someone, he felt more than adequately protected against a chilly day. Once out from the environs of Brascombe they turned towards a wooded hillside, up a rutted track along the line of a hog's back between overgrown hedgerows of bramble and hawthorn. Birds were singing, and after a while the scudding clouds seemed to vanish, the blue of the sky shifted and deepened and the sun appeared long enough to lay mild warmth on their shoulders.

Gusts of wind blew the yellowed remains of elm leaves around Willy's feet as he walked along with Jimmy Hyde. Although the Captain maintained the outward appearance of a cool, detached officer Willy noticed something simmering beneath the surface, something sad, as if something had got broken. It was as if the exterior of him was screening a different inner man. The sadness lent him a tragic look that became a source of fascination. Perhaps he was concealing pain. Romantic images of a lost-love and a man betrayed drifted through his thoughts. He had attached a mystique to the man and then let his fantasies take over. It wasn't been the first time. Willy had a knack for stumbling on tortured souls.

Strengthened by the way he had succeeded in influencing Sir Mortimer, Willy broached the idea of a peace settlement again, only to find that Jimmy Hyde was a more resilient mark.

He at once pulled a dissatisfied face. "My opinion hasn't changed since the last time we spoke. After Dunkirk we were vulnerable, but Hitler will find it more difficult to invade this island now than it would have been last year. And we'll never surrender. Even if he succeeds with an invasion the Royal Family and the Government will go to Canada, and we'll continue the war from the Dominions."

Willy added nothing more to that discussion, but he couldn't help but sigh at such foolish bravado. One didn't need to visit Berchtesgaden to know Hitler's solution to such a problem, because he'd heard enough loose talk from senior German officers while he waited to come to England to know what it would be. If this island capitulated and the Dominions continued the fight, Hitler would hold the entire population of Britain hostage. He would cause the U-boat blockade to continue and was prepared to starve the people down to the last child. The British and their Dominions would seek terms rather than let that happen.

"It is hard for me to think of you as an Englishman, Captain Hyde. Your friend Toby is of the type usually portrayed as English in Hollywood movies."

Jimmy Hyde almost fell into the trap of snapping back at him. "Don't take Toby to be the archetypical English fop because of the way he speaks, Miss Naarden. That man has courage and humanity welded into his soul. We both belong to the same armoured brigade, and he pulled me out of a burning tank last year in France. He saved my life." He thought for a moment, and then continued. "Toby is my friend, but he made a mistake when he saved me. I should have died there. I'm not afraid to die and it will happen before this war ends anyway. Now I have to keep going until the game is played out."

Willy frowned. "Now I understand your dark moods. You mustn't be so morbid. I suspect the only danger that ever confronts you is caused by your own valour. If you have bad feelings you should see a doctor. You have a medal for bravery, so no one could call you a coward."

That remark earned him a surprisingly fierce look. "I can't do that. They'd put me behind a desk somewhere while Toby and all the other fellows I know go on doing the stuff that matters. I die of shame there if of nothing else."

Sir Mortimer paused on the crest of the hill and called a halt. "This is as far as we need go. It's my favourite spot." He indicated a broad swathe of woodland laced with silver birch and dominated by great elm trees. It would have seemed unremarkable to a person passing by. The trees were densely packed and crowded together, and it was dingy, almost dark beneath their boughs and branches, and such space as there was at ground level was almost entirely occupied with fallen, rotting timber, and nothing grew there but a few scant patches of forsaken looking ivy.

"The little pocket of trees here is still wildwood and probably hasn't altered much in appearance for thousands of years." He beamed. "In the spring the forest floor is swathed with primroses and buttercups. Long ago there would have been of mile upon mile of such virgin forest, and if one uses one's imagination one can almost visualise sabre-toothed cats and cave-bears stalking through it, instead of just a few badgers and foxes."

Willy responded to his obvious delight. "You are a fine romancer, Sir Mortimer."

With a wry grin Deborah leaned against him and muttered in his ear. "The old dear's got plenty of romance. I can vouch for that."

After a few minutes they returned the way they had come. Everyone else was talking about the only subject that interested them – which at that time was the war. He fell behind the others, walking slowly along the beaten path, and without him being aware of it Jeremy de Vere appeared like a genie and fell into step beside him. "How are you settling in at Brascombe, Miss Naarden?" he asked.

Willy was a little wary of him at first despite of, or perhaps because of their previous contact. He was a remarkably fine looking man, probably just short of six foot, lean and fit and in his late twenties, which to Willy still seemed quite old. And while he himself was impulsive Jeremy seemed to weigh words carefully before he spoke, and with the skill of his profession he was adept at changing his conversation according to who he was with. He could be snappy and authoritive at times, but he was obviously eager to please at that moment, so perfectly did he behave that Willy thought he must have rehearsed what he said and did. His time as a diplomat would account for that, and he'd probably broken lots of hearts in the past.

Willy looked at him intently, wide blue eyes in an angel face. "Ask me in six months, Mr de Vere. My time here so far as been very short."

"You're being too formal. You must call me Jeremy."

"Very well. But only if you call me Willy."

"Your family are still in Holland, do you worry about them?"

"In Holland, my Uncle Oscar and my family? I can only hope they will survive the occupation. I can't contact them."

"Can't?"

"Mustn't. The Germans read everything. They don't like people receiving letters from abroad and they are suspicious if they come through neutral countries. They can be vengeful; they take in people for questioning, reduce their food ration or force them to move their homes. It's better not to keep in touch."

"Hmmm..." Jeremy frowned slightly. "It's a tragedy. The Dutch are decent people."

"Most, not all. They have their Nazi party. Its symbol is a wolf trap."

The man thought for a moment. "How horrible! But I don't suppose there's a country anywhere in the world without its fascists these days."

Willy nodded. "Your name...de Vere, is not an English name."

Jeremy chuckled. "It's been English since about the year 1240 when my family came to settle here. Willy is a sweet name, but not over feminine. If you were my girl I would call you Clytie."

"Clytie? What kind of a name is that? That's not English for certain."

"Greek mythology." explained Jeremy with a winsome grin. "Clytie was a water nymph and Apollo fell in love with her. He turned her into a sunflower so that she would always be turned towards him on his daily journey across the heavens."

"What nonsense you talk." Willy scolded mildly. But even as he rebuffed the flattery he felt his skin glow with pleasure. "I'm nothing special." he insisted.

"Oh, I think you are." the man murmured, studying him with cool amusement. In fact he had thought this recent house-guest at Brascombe very average looking at first, but he was wrong, she was blessed with a perfect complexion which required little or no make-up, as well as a slim but rounded figure. She was in fact, in appearance and manner the very opposite to Deborah who, whatever she wore, always managed to look like something straight out of Vogue and to sound like someone out of American vaudeville. In spite of trying to look severe and assertive, the girl's soft, full mouth and anxious eyes spoke of the real person behind a sedate image, and he was attracted to her. How long was her hair he wondered? His eyes moved to the tightly restrained, thick coil at the back of her head. No way of knowing. But the colour was wonderful.

Willy, confident that he looked enticing, allowed himself a slight smile. He was attracted to him too. He couldn't help it. From the moment he'd seen him he had felt an undeniable tiny current drawing him in his direction. His svelte image had drifted in and out of his thoughts constantly since that time and he found himself fantasizing about what his hands would feel like on his own, and the touch of his finely sculptured lips.

"Presuming this girl wasn't compelled to be a sunflower all the time, what would she look like?" he asked.

Jeremy touched the she-boys hair, pulling a strand from behind his ear, letting it slip through his fingers. "She would have hair like spun gold." he murmured.

Willy dipped his eyes and quivered when he felt fingers brush his cheek.

"And she would have skin like fine Chinese porcelain with a hint of pink. Very smooth. Very soft. She would be perfect. She would be the kind of girl who has never had a self-centred thought in her life."

Determinedly Willy looked away, but his heartbeat went into overdrive whilst a surge of explicit and bewildering arousal raced through him. He was attracted to Jeremy de Vere, and he felt a tremor of longing for the man. He had known him for a ridiculously brief time, so how could that happen? He began to blush like mad and noticed that the two of them were straggling behind the rest of the party. "Look, we are being left behind by the others. We must hurry to catch up."

When he quickened his pace Jeremy remonstrated with silky amusement, "Don't move too quickly. I'd be devastated if I thought you were running away from me."

When they were back at the house Debbie came over and went into a huddle with Willy. "Wow! You're a firecracker. You're a Little Miss Dynamite, aint you? I think you've scored a touchdown with Jeremy. I reckon he's taken a shine to you already, and I'm jealous as hell. He's a guy and a half, that one, and if I wasn't so committed to Mortimer I'd scratch your eyes out."

A guy and a half! thought Willy. Such a description suited Jeremy de Vere. He had something extra that came from sheer egoism and the determination to get what he wanted. It gave him an aura of overpowering virility. Though he tried to deny his feelings, Jeremy was becoming a constant presence in his mind.

As if he knew what he was thinking, Debbie said: "You mustn't care too much about him."

"Why...why?" Willy asked, taken by surprise, "What makes you say that? I haven't made a fool of myself, have I?"

"Not at all. Not yet." said Debbie, smiling ruefully at the girlish boy she was becoming to regard as her little sister. "Nobody's laughing at you, if that's what you mean. But he's a career diplomat, and that will always be his first love."

Willy speculated about what she said. Him? Be led astray by Jeremy de Vere? A stranger? He was too sensible for such stuff. Too sensible and too wary! Jeremy was a forceful man who wore arrogance like a second skin and had an inflated opinion of himself and his work. He doubtless had plenty of genuine female admirers and would run a mile away from a boy in a frock, so they were complete opposites and it was crazy. But his attraction was magnetic and all encompassing, and when he was around he couldn't help but absorb every physical detail and was unable to stop staring at him.

A tiny shiver curled down his spine and he resolutely tried to banish the man from his thoughts. Willy Froehlich hadn't come all the way to England to fantasise about men; he had a vital job to do. His aim was to arouse the wish for peace within Sir Mortimer Brascombe, and to do that he had to remain a single-minded trusted individual within the man's house.

In spite of his determination Brascombe's splendour that day began to fuel worries that it may weaken his resolve and the reason for him being there. The sense of detachment wasn't as strong as it had been on his arrival and he had begun to feel a surge of delight, a connectedness to the place where he was living and to the people he was sharing it with. Fortunately the house emptied again and became quiet after the weekend, and gave him a chance to take stock of his frailty. His mission was not to endanger these people; he was there to save their lives.

To offset the scarcity of company Deborah laid on tea in the drawing room with all the pomp and best china she could call on in an English country house. Willy sat in the high-ceilinged drawing room on a lumpy but comfortable sofa, before an open fire, grinning as he watched her pour. "You take tea just like an English lady."

Debbie pulled a face of disapproval. "I ain't got any choice at the moment. I finished off Mortimer's mocha coffee stock weeks ago and we can't get any more for love or money at the moment. Mrs Whippet can only get chicory essence with the food coupons and that stuff as a flavour that goes nowhere." He passed a full cup of tea across the table between them. "Jeremy will be coming back with Mortimer later in the week, and he'll be staying for a few days. He'll be company for you while I'm away."

Willy took the offered cup and refused the sugar. The English and Debbie seemed to like their tea well brewed and strong, but he preferred it weak, without milk or sugar. He added hot water to his cup. "Company for me! Why is that? Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'm taking a train to Liverpool soon. Got to meet some friends of mine off a boat from the Yoonited States."

"Is it safe for your friends to travel here? German submarines are sinking many ships in the Atlantic."

"They'll be okay. We operate the Neutrality Act. The Germans don't touch passenger liners with Ol' Glory flapping at the back. An' I tell you, when we get back here we'll have plenty of coffee and a bucket full of Bourbon too. We'll show all these stiff-necked Limey's just how well yanks can throw a party."

At that moment the door opened and Mrs Whippet showed Arnold Knapp into their company. Debbie looked up in surprise. "Arnold! I wasn't expecting you to call. Have I neglected an appointment with you?"

The man grinned oafishly. "No, Deborah. I...er...just happened to be passing...and... er... thought I'd just... pop in. The truth is, Brenda and I have had a bit of a tiff." he confided, "You know, a lovers quarrel, a spat. She's hoofed it back to Birmingham to look after Knapp& Co, but damned if I felt in the mood to go with her immediately."

"You've had a spat?" queried Deborah.

"Yes, she criticised the way I laugh. She said I should acquire a more socially acceptable laugh, she said people who bray like a mule only attract other mules."

Debbie regarded him suspiciously. With Brenda not around Arnold was something more than a mule, he was a lounge lizard running loose. He had even tried his greasy charm on her in the past, and while Debbie was not always entirely faithful to her own partners, she liked steady men who took their time. The hearty, bovine types who, without the least encouragement swiftly became amorous were a bore, and there was no doubt into what category she placed Arnold.

As he spoke Arnold raised a meaningful eyebrow, and Deborah observed him quietly as his eyes lingered on Willy. It was not herself he intended to pursue on this particular occasion. He had the newly arrived Dutch girl in his sights. "Do you trust your wife to look after all your steel rivets alone?" she asked him.

Arnold snorted, pulled up a chair and helped himself to a cup of tea. "I have perfectly capable managers on each shift at my factory. I don't need to be there ALL the time myself."

"Don't you care about producing rivets for victory?"

"War!" Arnold grinned with some complacency. "It's always hit or miss with that sort of caper, and with Hitler I've an awful fancy that we've rung the ruddy bell this time. Trouble is we've no chance of getting out of it while Churchill has control of things. All people such as I can do is make plenty of hay while the sun shines."

Debbie smiled vaguely. "I understand you, Arnold. As far as war is concerned you only hear cash registers ringing. You don't care anything about it or want to know anything about it."

"That's true, "said Arnold, "And it's the same with you I'll warrant. I don't know much but I do know this... they shouldn't be giving so many rifles to the Home Guard. They're civilians, and these are trying times. If you start giving guns to every Jack and Harry we may hear `em go bang in the wrong direction one day."

"You don't trust human nature." said Debbie.

"Not when they've got guns. That's tempting revolution. What do you say, Willy?"

Looking exquisite and dreamy Willy sipped his tea. When the man threw him a lop-sided grin he managed to smile back. "War is lunacy. Unfortunately most people these days seem to be lunatics."

"I blame Churchill." Arnold drawled in a cynical voice, while his green eyes devoured the Dutch girl. "They should have made Halifax Prime Minster. He's well qualified for it."

"Sure," agreed Debbie, "Better qualified than most of the others. But when it comes to the pinch... like it as done... then I doubt if he's tough enough to take the strain."

"You may be right. Churchill is more the type. He's as tough as leather. But for all that, I reckon Halifax would have been better. He's got ideas, yet knows when not to bother. Toughness isn't everything."

Debbie shrugged and crossed her legs with a swish of nylon. "I never said it was. But sooner or later in the business of politics, you've got to have it. Mortimer has seen a lot more of it than most... even though he's never been offered High Office... and he says politics looks deceptively easy, but somewhere behind all the tea drinking and talk there's a battlefield."

Arnold lifted a ginger-nut biscuit from a plate, thought better of it and put it back. "That's the reason I'm glad to be in rivets. I don't even like the word battlefield." He turned and gazed at the window. "We're wasting some decent weather today. When you've finished your tea how about going for a stroll."

Deborah refused to commit herself, saying she'd check that out with Mortimer when he was free. Then there was a break in the conversation when Mrs Whippet came in and asked him if she could spare a moment to talk on a domestic matter.

Suddenly conscious that Arnold was staring at him, Willy quickly looked away, but as soon as Deborah had gone from the room he abandoned his chair and moved onto the couch where Willy was seated. "Deborah doesn't seem too keen on a walk out," he said, swinging towards him and leaning forward, "But that's okay. I'm sure you and I can make a nice time of it without other people being around."

He showed all the romance of a cold fried egg, and something seemed to curdle in Willy's belly when he heard the man speak. "I don't know what you mean, Mr Knapp."

Arnold openly smirked. "Come off it, you're no angel. You know exactly what I mean all right. I doubt you've come this far in your travels without showing gratitude to a few men. More than a few I'd say. `Spect you got to enjoy it along the way, and there's no reason why we couldn't both enjoy it together today."

Willy turned away in some alarm. He could smell the eau du Cologne the man had lathered on his body to a sickly sweet degree. "Arnold, I wish you would..."

"Wish I would what, my dear?"

"I wish you would go back to Bir...ming...ham."

The man gurgled with amusement. "You're a card, you are. You're a regular comic. But don't try to be a Clever Dick my girl, just keep it straight and simple." Looking more uncouth than ever, but still amused, he ran his fingers back and forth along Willy's bare arm, aware now that the skin there was soft and smooth, "Reach back a little," he urged, "You'll find it's not a stick o' celery I've got in my pocket."

Unnoticed by anyone Deborah had returned, and she was not a woman to avert her eyes or disappear into the scenery. Arnold uttered a sharp yowl as he came up behind him, grasped an ear, and twisted. "We'll have no more of your vile attitude in this house, Mr Knapp. I suggest you leave."

Arnold made a display of indignation and leapt to his feet. "Just a minute Deborah. It's all this little Dutch tramps fault. She's been encouraging me ever since I arrived, giving me the glad-eye and smiling and everything."

Such a demonstration made no impact on Deborah. Despite the restrictions of wearing a dress she squared up like a boxer. "Listen here Buster, this kid's only been here a short while, but I already know her like I know my own little sister, an' she wouldn't make any kind of eyes at a creepy spiv like you." With that Deborah swung a hefty right hook that caught the man hard enough on the chin to make his head swivel sideways.

Horrified, Arnold staggered and clutched at his face. "Look here, Deborah," said he, bolting towards the door and opening it; "You can be as abusive as you wish, but there is a limit. You may not assault me."

"May I not?" Debbie began slowly advancing towards him in a menacing way, "I've throw people like you out of the door in the past. You will be the fourth or fifth. Four pounds and ten shilling each in English money it cost me in fines. Expensive, but very necessary. Now, I advise you to go before I stuff one of your steel rivets up your ass so deep you'll need surgery to get it out."

Taking note of the threatening advance Arnold drew his lips together until they puckered like a chicken's backside. "I don't like you today, Debbie. Nor you," he added turning to Willy. "In fact I don't like being here at all, and I wish I hadn't come." With that he was gone.

Deborah smiled with satisfaction and dusted his hands together. "We sure put that guy in his place, didn't we, little sister?"

Dumfounded by the violence and rapid turn of events Willy looked up at his protector. "Er, yes. We sure did."

It was just on 6-o-clock in the evening when Mrs Whippet came looking for Willy. "There's someone on the telephone asking to speak to you." she said.

He gazed at her, surprised. "Asking to speak to me?"

"Yes, Miss Naarden. Someone is asking to speak to Willy."

Mystified he went through into the Gun Room and picked up the phone. "Yes, who is that?"

"Hello, Willy Froehlich." said a man's voice.

The response caught Willy off guard and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. He swallowed hard as he recognised Tom Soames speaking, and now there didn't seem any point in denying things any longer. "How did you find me?"

Tom uttered a lightweight heh-heh cackle, but his voice was low and sonorous. "That was quite easy when I'd made up my mind who you really must be. You were with an American, and there aren't many of those in Essex. I just asked around until I found someone who knew where the American lived, then I phoned and asked to speak to Willy. Lo and Behold, you obligingly answered the call."

"What do you want, Tom?"

"Over the phone is awkward. Meet me at the end of the drive in an hour. We need to talk."

"What do you mean: `we need to talk'?" objected Willy. "I'm not sure we do have to talk."

"Don't be cross with me, Willy. Just be there. Believe me; we really do need to talk."

Willy Froehlich couldn't help but feel uneasy for a while afterwards. He could think of no reason for going out that night that would convince Deborah that he should go alone. Debbie knew he had no boyfriend and that he knew no one in England beyond the boundaries of the garden, and when he tried lying to her he was always so transparent. Providentially she went upstairs to take a bath as the deadline approached, and taking advantage of her absence he slipped on his topcoat and left the house by the side door. The invention of excuses, he decided, would need to wait until his return.

Tom Soames was standing across the lane at the end of the drive. He was beneath a tree, his air force uniform concealed beneath a voluminous trench coat, and he was stamping his feet as if impatient to begin a race. When Willy appeared he looked at the shapely nylon-clad legs beneath the hem of his skirt and grinned. "Hey" he said, "you look... nice, old friend!"

Despite the worrying arrangement that had been made Willy managed a smile, it was no longer raining but he was aware that his hair was misted by the moisture in the air. "Hello," he answered. He was feeling uneasy, terrified he may be trapped into saying something that would betray his mission, so he wanted to make this meeting as brief as possible and get away. "I never expected to see you again once you left Heidelberg. Why do you need to see me now at all? What's it all about?"

Tom had a pleasant quizzical face which promised interest and sympathy. He recalled how Tom Soames had always been an engaging flirt with those dark circles under his eyes, and his thick arched eyebrows. He would always appeal to women and men alike; people of his appearance, with pleasant manners did.

"Would you like tea or a drink or something?" he said to Willy, "If you don't mind walking a mile I've a little cottage just along the road."

Now that he could see Tom alone and more clearly he felt reassured, and the idea of him was oddly no longer threatening. For a moment he recalled the pleasant times they had shared at university. How when they had first met he thought the world would stop. The silly games they had played, and how he thought he would explode with joy when Tom held him in his arms.

"Well, I don't want to be away too long. But, oh...um...Yes, I'd very much like to go for a walk." he conceded. "I can't think why it's such a good idea. I just feel like a walk."

They swung away along the lane and nodding at a woman walking her dog. Once past her Tom said, "I was surprised to see you in the town. You speak English quite well, so you must have come over here shortly after I returned home. And the female disguise is good. It took me a little time to work out that you'd gone over to being a girl, Willy, but then I recalled you were always rather effeminate, and once that clicked into place, so did everything else."

"Yes, I've been here for quite a while." Willy lied, "And you, Tom. You are an officer in the British air force now."

The young man half-smiled and shrugged. "I would never volunteer for such a thing. I'm still the same kind of rebel I was in Heidelberg, but I was pressed into service when I returned home. I help in administering a detachment on the coast doing wireless interception, listening to commentary on the Duetchlandfunk and monitoring low grade messaging sent in clear. It's a bore and an insult to my talent. A schoolboy with a decent crystal-set could do the same work. I wanted to become involved with RADAR development, but because I spoke good German that's where they put me."

Willy sensed the aggressive defensiveness of him that was pitted with discontent. It had always been there in the past and Willy had accepted it then. Now such childlike carping jangled slightly.

A man appeared in front of them, walking in the opposite direction hurrying to join the woman with the dog. Tom looked at him with suspicion until he had gone past then took hold of his arm. "This way. I don't want to sound pushy, but we do need to talk and my place is the best place to do it tonight."

The cottage he was taken to was tucked into the south side of the little hill where Sir Mortimer enjoyed his walks. It was stone-built, solid and four-square, unpretentious and strangely friendly amid a small garden containing a few defunct hydrangeas and irises and a stand of nettles. A small fence of wooden rails surrounded it, giving it the appearance of the sort of place a warm-hearted old widow-woman would inhabit in a nursery story. On a wicket gate hung a plaque declaring it as `Lilac Cottage.'

Willy followed through the gate and down a little path and noticed a motorbike shrouded in a tarpaulin at the side of the house which was obviously Tom's way of getting about.

"Make yourself at home!" invited his host, unlocking the front door and flinging it open. He groped for a light switch and illuminated the place, revealing a tiny room, sparsely decorated and slightly forlorn, containing two easy chairs with greasy armrests and worn cushions. A faint but pervasive smell of mildew hung in the air, so it was clearly a place for an individual preoccupied with matters other than keeping house.

"It's not the Ritz, but it suits me for doing things I wish to do," Tom declared, "and it's better than living with my parents. They're as conservative and stuck in the mud as old Sir Mortimer."

Tom led the way through to the back room, a more spacious place, being two small rooms knocked into a single larger one. It was furnished with a sagging single bed with a scratched headboard and crumpled sheets, and a long table, a workbench built from sickly plywood was fixed to the wall. The top of the table was cluttered with steel boxes with dials and gauges, oscillators and amplifiers and loops of aerial wire. "Radio is my passion, my profession and my hobby." he boasted, swinging his arm around at everything.

When he went off to put some water in a kettle Willy wandered over to the window. Through it he gazed at a glimmer of lights in the distant forest, and when Tom came back he smiled. "I was thinking this was a lonely place for you, but I see you have company nearby. I see lights in the trees further on."

Tom nodded. "That's the camp of the armoured brigade in Foxley Wood. It's less then two miles from here."

And then, almost as if waiting for a cue, there came the mournful wailing noise of an air raid siren and within just a few seconds all the lights in the forest became extinguished. Tom switched off his own electric light and lit the stub of a candle with a match, and together they listened to the drone of heavy-engined aircraft growing overhead.

"Luftwaffe seeking their nightly kill." murmured Tom, "What a target they are forsaking in those woods. An entire tank brigade laid out at their mercy, but they can't see any of it. What a missed opportunity for them, eh, Willy? Being so close I wonder why you haven't already helped them out."

Willy lost his poise at that moment knowing they were entering into a subject fraught with peril. He knew that whatever reason he gave for being in England would sound weak and fantastic to someone who had known him so well in the past.

The man's voice hissed softly in the poor light. "There's no need to draw pictures for me. You are obviously an enemy agent engaged in some kind of clandestine work here."

"I can't tell you anything." he said nervously.

"Of course, I understand that. It's safer that way. But it explains why you're staying with Mortimer Brascombe. He's upper-middle-class, dull, respectable and rich, with excellent connections in the government, and among diplomats. He's not the sort of person you would have associated with in the past. We were both rebels in those days."

Tom grinned broadly and his teeth glimmered in the candlelight. "I understand everything now. Willy Froehlich is a Secret Agent!" The idea seemed to amuse him and he announced it a little too loudly for Willy's comfort. "You know how dangerous it is, what you do? I mean really, it is dangerous, and no clemency is given. They'll hang you if you're found out. But you'll be a Nazi no doubt. They have great daring, and being homosexual isn't a hindrance if you belong to the Party."

Willy sagged as if he'd been stabbed to the heart. "So what happens now? What are you going to do?" he challenged softly.

"You don't have to fear me. I'm not about to turn you in."

"Really? But you are an officer and it should be your duty."

"Maybe so, but actually I'm quite in awe of what you do. It must be a good life. Tense. Living on the edge all the time. I hate my job. I'm more in tune with what you are doing, and you know how much I've always admired Hitler."

"You used to admire him, but war changes people."

"It doesn't change everyone." came the ominous reply.

The noise of aircraft passing overhead had receded, the siren in the nearby camp sounded an `all clear' and switching the main light back on the normally garrulous Tom was suddenly struck by the looks of the boy he had once known. Quite simply he was moved by how pretty he was. What with his big eyes and his hair, plaited for the evening and knotted carefully into his neck, he looked like some sort of vision sent to England for the evening, destined to vanish once a clock struck midnight. He could not remember when he had seen anyone with such colouring; his face seemed to have taken on an extra glow and the elegance with which he moved, the manner of his smile, his sweetly modulated voice, made Willy Froehlich entirely different to the person he had known before. That young Willy was friendly was no surprise to him, because he was accustomed to beautiful boys liking him, even when he gave them no special affection in return.

Willy watched Tom Soames in return. When he paced the length of the room and he beheld his tall elegant figure silhouetted against the window, he seemed so strong, warm and commanding, and he evoked in others a natural desire to please him. Sexual magnetism oozed from the man, and he had a maddening aura about him that bombarded everyone with his magnificence. But Willy knew how many masks he could put on. His good looks had always been accompanied with the cruel, languid movements of a cat, expressive with soft hands and a slightly full roman face.

"Why don't you come over here?" Tom said softly.

Willy's heart did a backward somersault. But still he hesitated.

Tom fixed him with his gaze, just as he had when they were students together. "Now." he added firmly, white teeth gritted. "Come closer. You are somewhat different to the way I remember you, but the change adds to your sweetness rather than detracts from it. You are exceptionally beautiful."

With some reservation Willy stepped towards him, not seeking to meet his eyes, looking at his shirt, the hollows of his neck, anywhere other than those hypnotic charcoal eyes he could feel burning his skin.

"I know I'm moving fast," Tom murmured as he bent his head to lightly kiss his forehead, "But I'm a man in a hurry."

Tom's hand was pushing through his hair, securing his head at just the right angle for his mouth to home in, to kiss him and make him wish to return the passion it stirred. And that passion was running through him like liquid fire mixed with honey in an instant. Any thought of resisting Tom or of denying himself the pleasure his body craved was forgotten.

All those adolescent times of joy first experienced in Heidelberg returned to refresh him, and even if he didn't wish to acknowledge it, with one searing kiss Tom Soames had shown that, far from being over what he believed had been a period of juvenile silliness the first time he had met him, he was still vulnerable to him now.

He felt hands clutching at his body and he made a small movement, thinking to be free, and then froze with disbelief at the speed with which his flesh reacted to the caress. His face burned with embarrassment and he prayed that Tom could not feel, as he could, the sudden tensing and swelling of his breasts. His nipples were tightening and thrusting against his top as though eager for attention, whilst his stomach clenched and a slow ache possessed the lower part of his body.

A look of uncertainty flickered in his eyes, but Tom was already grabbing his hand and hauling him forward. "I need this," Willy heard him mutter savagely. Impatiently Willy wound his arms around his neck, pulling him down and kissing him hungrily. Their teeth clashed.

"This is lust." Willy moaned softly.

"Yes. Complete unadulterated lust." agreed his friend.

"How much do you want me Willy? Do you want me a lot?" Tom asked coolly, stroking and a hand over a girlish chest.

Willy gasped heatedly; unable to form a reply, but the man had already made his judgement. One dark eyebrow rose tellingly, and Willy was hotly conscious of a gaze sweeping his face and his body. "Get out your tits. Let me see them."

Some masochistic streak made him submit.Willy's blouse was slithered back and he became of Tom's fingers dragging at his chemise to expose his chest.

Tom stroked the enlivened nipples fondly, then taking a step back he clicked over a switch among the apparatus on the workbench and smiled as he revealed an insulated length of electric lead in his hand, at the tip of which was a twist of bare copper wire. "Treats for the sweet." he murmured. "No need to be scared, I took a Degree in Electrical Engineering."

Willy flinched as the bare wire stroking against each of his thrusting teats, and as it touched a raw sensation tickled and zinged through him as a tiny trickle of electric current stimulated and taunted the delicacy of his flesh. "Oh, oh, oh!" Willy moaned fit to burst as his nipples expanded.

Tom's mouth was on his throat. "There's a girl... there's a beautiful girl." encouraged Tom. While one hand played devilish games with the wire he stroked Willy's sleek head as if it were a dog. "Aren't you a beautiful girl?"

Willy nodded at him, jolted by the wire, steadied and soothed by the voice and the touch, he gave up resisting. When Tom put away the taunting wire he placed his hands on his shoulders and allowed him to remove the rest of his clothes, and as the eager man's mouth kissed his body, all he could do was think of how wonderful it was, and exactly like it had been before. He felt like an addict of some kind, desperately looking for a fix.

Tom lifted his arms and put them round him. This time it was his own tongue that probed the line of lips, but it was Tom who drew it deep inside the dark sensuality of his mouth, coaxing it, encouraging it, and then fiercely mating with it. His heart bounced inside him like a child's toy. He could hardly breathe, and not just because of the way Tom was kissing him.

The speed with which Tom moved was very impressive. One moment he was standing against him, the next he was sweeping him up in his arms and swinging him off the floor and onto the bed. Willy felt helpless, swamped by the strength of the beautiful man's beautiful body. "What are you going to do?" he whimpered softly. "Are you going to make love to me?"

"Love?" Tom snickered. "Well, while you're here we could have a quickie. But I want much more than just that. A lot more." he brushed his lips against Willy's half-parted mouth, then touched them to each swollen nipple in turn before returning to his mouth with deep ferocity.

"Kneel up and stick out your arse." he ordered when he drew away. In his hand he held another slender, long electrical lead connected to some apparatus on the table, and this time the lead was tipped by a jack-plug the shape and size of a cigar. His intention was obvious. He was about to stick something into him Willy realised apprehensively, but he fought not to let him know how much he felt intimidated. "We're lovers, just like in the old days." Tom informed him, closing the gap between them.

The thing was a perfect fit. So wonderful he could barely tolerate it. So snug its warmth seemed to suffuse him. And when Tom added electricity it became a perfect intersection of pleasure.

Willy had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out and telling him to stop. His body seemed to have no means of movement of its own. It had become completely obedient to what he was doing, whilst inside him the tension continued to grow to an unbelievable level. He could sense throbs and pulsation. It was as if he were tied to a ribbon of electricity, and the universe was exploding somewhere inside him. When he heard the sounds of pleasure flooding the room and knew they were his own, even when he had no awareness of making them. He was aware of anything else other than the regular invidious pulse of the item plugged inside.

Panic and desperation speared through him. Ignoring the lynx-eyed look Tom was giving him, he took a breath. Lovers! Panic shot through him in company with abhorrence and rejection. Whatever Tom was doing wasn't being done with love, it was being done for some selfish cranky reason.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, the sound of his voice meek, raw and frantic in his own ears.

Ignoring his anxious question Tom studied him silently, assessing his behaviour, just looking at him, admiring the way consternation sparked his eyes and made his cheeks flush with heat. Still holding on to those idiotic ideas that they were soul mates, was he? He looked convincingly distressed and he applauded his acting talent. It was all part of the act of innocence he had known him to put on in Heidelberg. He could detect his discomfort and guilt, the two things that gave the sharpest edge to sex, and he knew neither of them would regret what was happening.

"You like that, don't you? You always were sensitive there." Tom's voice was a dark, tormenting whisper as he twisted the object inside. "Enjoy it. Churn your little backside around and make the most of things." he coaxed coldly.

Suddenly the object was removed and shudders ran through Willy's body as hands stroked the skin of his bare back. In a mirror he could see Tom leaning over, his erection straining from the mat of hair surrounding its base. "Is this what you crave?" he whispered dangerously.

And then they were lying on the bed together, and Tom was holding him, lifting him, entering him just in time. He could feel his muscles straining as he willed his aroused body into submission. The need to possess him was savage, but unloving, and on a surging explosion of relief and release his single powerful thrust carried them to completion on a fierce endless wave of pleasure, racking them both again and again whilst he spilled hotly into the waiting, wanting heat of his body.

The afterglow for Tom was nonexistent. No words of romance, no act of thoughtfulness. When he'd extracted himself he sat on the edge of the bed like an angler contemplating bait, and because of that Willy took to examining his own feelings.

And what was he feeling! Things were no longer as they once were, that was for sure. Tom hadn't displayed the tenderness and humour they had once shared; in fact he was a monster. He ought to hate and loathe him. He did hate and loathe him. It was just his own body that was weak, that was all.

He rubbed his temples sceptically. For a time in Heidelberg Tom and he had been inseparable. He had adored the Englishman, but somehow the magic of their union had evaporated. There was something unpleasant about his attitude now. There was a basic incompatibility between the two of them that hadn't been there before.

"I want you to relay a message for me, Willy." the man said suddenly, "It's the kind of information our friends abroad will be grateful for."

Willy rolled onto his back and sat up, pale and lost as blood drained from his head.

"Friends abroad! That's impossible. I have no way of contacting people abroad."

Tom looked incredulous. "A Secret Agent without a transmitter! That's preposterous."

"I've been left to my own devises. Radio transmitters are certain proof of spying and I was told I wouldn't need one."

"You do have a recognised codename I take it. All agents have one. I have some information to pass and I can build a Morse transmitter, but without a recognisable codename no one will trust what I say."

Willy shot him a look, a startled, anguished look. Was it the war that was responsible for the unloving change in Tom Soames? "You wish to betray your country?"

Tom's eyes glowed with an eerie inner light, and his face became a pinkish colour... a matte pink, the colour of a pig that had been freshly slaughtered. "I might have known you'd end up saying something stupid like that, Willy. Do you know what your problem is? No sense of purpose. No direction. Your conscience as always got in the way of doing what is necessary."

With a jolt Willy realised that Tom had jammed his face only inches in front of him. It wasn't a nice face at that moment but he found it impossible to twist away from him. Why was he being so cruel?

Tom's mouth smiled, but not his eyes. "I am not betraying my country, you silly cow; I'm going to save it. We live in an old, worn-out democracy here, and you know what Plato thought of democracies. The democratic process condemned his friend Socrates to death, so he reckoned that politics should be judged like medicine: we shouldn't judge a doctor by how popular he is, but by whether he can cure anyone. Plato said we shouldn't be governed by someone simply because they got the most votes. Instead, the position should go to the people most skilled... just like any other job. He called his ideal ruler the Philosopher King, and right now it should be as plain as daylight to everyone in the world that Adolph Hitler is such a king."

Now Willy began to understand Tom Soames more clearly than he had ever understood him before. He was a rogue male, a force of nature who refused to be compromised by the wishes of society and who had never lost the adolescent wish to disrupt. In an earlier generation he would have been an anarchist. A hundred years previously he would have been strutting behind the barricades of the Paris communes. He was a man without patriotism who would forever kick against the status quo. But he was even more complex than that. Few people had heard of the words sociopathic or psychotic in 1941, but Willy knew of the word, smug. And when Tom grinned he looked smug.

Tom shuffled his feet and began to pace up and down the room. On his solemn face was an expression of contempt that was aimed at many things.

"Know what the real difference is between you and me, little Willy? I know what I want from life and I go for it, while you just saunter along taking in the scenery. Sooner or later the resistance in this country will have its neck rung like that of a chicken and Germany will have control, and when that happened I intend to be on the winning side." Evidently sensing some innate resistance to what he was saying he added, "I need a codename to send a message, Willy. I don't have one, so I must use the one given to you."

"I don't wish to be involved in espionage, that's not why I'm here." Willy protested, "And I was told never to reveal my codename to anyone."

Tom's face hardened and a dark, frightening anger filled his expression, banishing the intimacy they had shared earlier. "I don't need you for anything more than that. I can't afford to fool around with my W/T set; people listen to all the frequencies and they will have a fix on me pretty quick if I repeat myself too often. Now, tell me what it is."

The curt words were distinctly unfriendly, his voiced clipped and incisive, and he served a look that was coldly demanding. Walking over to his workbench he twisted a dial and raised up the lead with the exposed wire. "There's enough electricity going through this now to make a lamp shine. Enough to make your balls jump out of their bag if I touched you with it."

Willy gave him a frightened glance. Frightened? Yes, he was frightened of Tom now. "Oh no, please don't. My codename? It... it's Eintracht." he whispered hesitantly.

Tom chuckled irreverently, which seemed to imply his satisfaction. "Eintracht... Harmony! I'd never have guessed it. What a fine name for a spy." He looked out of the window and relayed in a grim whisper, "I'm going to put that information to good use. I have an idea that will assist Germany in this war. Do you wish to help me Willy?"

Willy stood, suddenly dizzy, swaying on his feet. His mouth was a little open but he was quite unable to think of a single word to say, although he hoped the expression in his eyes could communicate what he felt but was unable to put into words. Savage pain followed by equally savage anger spiked his heart. Illogically he felt as though somehow Tom had betrayed him by not recognising the person he was, by misjudging him, not caring enough to recognise what had happened to him.

"You're not usually so slow with your replies." Tom said.

Confusion darkened Willy's eyes as he looked up at him. He snapped his mouth shut, then said: "I don't want to hurt anyone."

He was at a loss to understand what was happening until he saw the way Tom was looking back at him. He saw triumph and contempt glittering in his eyes before they were hidden away from him with a blank look of steely professionalism. And then that grin again: sardonic, full of appetite and devoid of humour.

"In that case you're better staying out of it, because I intend to cause bloody mayhem."