‘Maybe some other time, Mother.’
It was the first time since she became an adult that she had lied to someone close to her. Was this something she might have to do regularly to keep that part of her life secret? Could she retain all the information she gathered and keep her lies from tripping her up? Was espionage full of lies? Somehow, she had to protect her family in Germany without harming her native Scottish land. She was walking a tightrope, one that might not hold her weight, let alone allow her to keep her balance.
Never had four days dragged so much. On Thursday, a postal order arrived from London. She somehow felt Dynes and Thornton were based nearer, perhaps in Edinburgh. She supposed they had superiors, and they would be in London. She cashed the order at the post office in Forres and stowed the money away in her purse.
When she returned from the town, she sat in the back garden with her mother, drinking lime cordial and gazing over the town to Clunnyhill.
Mother’s eyes followed her stare. ‘You remember walking there, beyond the cemetery?’
Hilda shaded her eyes and nodded.
‘That was some time ago. I am sure I can’t do that any longer. I suppose I am just not fit,’ she said. Her mind unwound the years and took her back to those days of her youth when everything was so peaceful.
‘We get older; less wise – and then we die.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Mother. You have many years ahead of you.’
‘Perhaps, but your father has not. I see him fading almost every day. Do see him before you go to Inverness tomorrow, darling.’
‘I will.’ She reached for her mother’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
True to her word, on Friday morning after breakfast, she entered her father’s bedroom. All his vitality seemed to be slipping away. She placed her hand on top of his and tapped it lightly. His eyes opened and a wicked smile came her way: one of the few ways he had left of acknowledging that she was there. She could not stay long. She had a train to catch and she told him so.
‘You can take me to Inverness,’ he suggested ‘I love it there… the river…’
She held his hand in both of hers. ‘Not this time, father. Let’s make it next summer when it’s much warmer.’
‘That’s a deal, darling,’ he managed to say.
The train was on time and she saw the station master wave his green flag and blow his whistle. The train began to chug along and slowly build up speed. There was something about the greenness of the land. It calmed her: the same damp green she recalled in northern Germany. Rural Scotland and rural Germany had their similarities; why could the people not be the same too? It was becoming far too late for compromises.
She was aware that this was a seismic development in her career as a double agent. Could she retain all that she would hear today? Moreover, how soon could she safely communicate with Thornton or Dynes, and with Eicke?
The train arrived at Inverness station after forty minutes. No one explained why it was six minutes late or apologised. Her watch showed it was 11.36 a.m. She took a cab to the hotel, which overlooked the Black Isle on the Beauly Firth. The taxi drove up to the stately hotel and she entered.
‘Good morning. I have arrived to meet Mr and Mrs Brown.’
‘You are Miss Richter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will find them having coffee in the gazebo in the garden. Perhaps you might like to join them?’
‘Rather,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was pleased to know dear friends were waiting.
‘Then let me take you.’
The receptionist came out from behind her desk and instructed a passing bell boy to bring an extra coffee to the gazebo and fresh tea.
They crossed the gravel driveway and proceeded onto the unmowen grass. ‘How long have Mr and Mrs Brown been at the hotel?’ Hilda asked, trying to sound casual.
‘They arrived yesterday. They are tourists, as you know. Heading up to Dornoch tomorrow, they said. It would have been warmer in June.’
The gazebo was behind a privet hedge, out of sight of the hotel. It was south facing. A closed door came into view, presumably trapping the heat from the bright autumn sun. A man rose from his chair and opened the door as she approached. He left the gazebo. He wore a tweed suit with a green shirt and mottled brown tie. He was not tall, a little overweight, and his hairline was receding. His moustache twitched as he smiled at Hilda’s approach. He looked the quintessential Scottish country gent. Seated behind him was a woman, but the angle of the sun prevented Hilda from seeing her properly.
‘Hilda, delighted to see you,’ Mr Brown said, extending his hand. She could already detect a Swabian accent mixed with a South African shade. He was definitely not from any of the Hanseatic ports of the northern coast; he was from south-west Germany, an area whose residents had a reputation for meekness. Perhaps he was the exception to the rule.
‘Good afternoon. I apologise for being a little late.’
‘Not at all. I appreciate you have travelled quite a distance this morning,’ he said.
‘Your coffee will be with you soon, madam,’ informed the receptionist. She swivelled on her heels, lifting them to avoid sinking into the soft grass.
Mr Brown held out his hand to invite Hilda into the summer house. It was a heat trap but pleasantly shaded from the bright sun by cane blinds. Mrs Brown stood up to shake her hand. She was a much older woman, which surprised Hilda. She even wondered if she might be the man’s mother. Her grey hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Her spectacles lay on the table beside her coffee cup. She wore a dark suit with a white ruff at her neck and black shoes. A brooch sat over her Adam’s apple. Hilda wondered if the green stone was real jade, and waited to hear whether she spoke high or low German. When the woman did speak, she deduced it must be a precious stone; her accent revealed she was from the upper classes.
‘Frau Richter,’ said Mr Brown in quiet German. ‘We revert to English as soon as we see your coffee arrive. You understand?’
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘Greetings from Herr Eicke,’ he said.
‘Ah, thank you. I wish I could return the compliment.’
‘You will do so before very long.’
Her throat tightened. Was he suggesting an immediate return to Germany? She was not ready for that.
‘Here she comes with the coffee. Start talking in English; don’t say anything about Germany,’ he said abruptly.
She thought quickly. ‘As I said, I have a brother on the Island of Bute and a sister, married, down in London. I do not get a chance to see her very often. The distance, you see. I have not seen Joan and her husband Ian for a few years… thank you.’ She took the cup and poured some milk into it. ‘I miss seeing my nieces and nephews, of course. You know how they grow and change so quickly?’
The receptionist left, closing the door behind her.
‘So you have a large family, Frau Richter?’ asked Mrs Brown.
Hilda peered through the glass to make sure the receptionist was far out of earshot. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. Just one son and he’s in Hamburg.’
‘Otto?’
Instinctively she raised her eyes. Mr Brown narrowed his gaze, and she nodded quickly.
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving the Hitler Youth soon to go to a motorized company in Hamburg.’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘You are very well informed,’ she said, wondering exactly how well.
‘Of course. Herr Eicke keeps us informed.’ Mr Brown took off his jacket and placed it over the arm of his chair. ‘This is a beautiful country. Your country. You must be glad to be home with your parents.’
‘Indeed I am. I had not seen them for a few years.’