“No thank you,” Oliver said quickly. “Data couriers have to be anonymous. If my name is pasted over fifty thousand newspapers, my cover will be blown and everyone will be watching for me.”
“I don’t think it matters now,” the Colonel said, “but suit yourself.”
Edinburgh
Scotland, United Kingdom
17th July 1940
As she had done for the past twenty happy years of marriage, Mary McManus carefully finished baking the bread and pulled it out of the oven, before placing it on the plate for her husband. Her children – her adopted children – watched nervously; her husband had been one of the casualties of the first German air raid aimed at Edinburgh.
“There,” she said, smiling at her children. They were her children in all, but blood; she was barren. She loved her husband dearly and had never looked back from the day she’d accepted his proposal, but children had been the one thing she had been unable to give him. Sean hadn’t minded – despite his skinhead he was a decent man and a valiant fire fighter before his retirement – and they’d adopted five children and made them their own. “Just right for Sean.”
“Mom,” Cassie, her oldest daughter, said carefully. “Mom, Dad’s… gone.”
Mary sank onto the chair and started to cry, feeling everything catch up with her. They’d been looking forward to many happy years of Sean’s retirement, to Cassie’s wedding in October, to watching their grandchildren grow up. And then Britain had fallen back in time, Sean had been recalled to the fire brigade, the Germans had tried to bomb the city… and Sean had been caught in a burning house and killed.
“Eat the bread,” she said. “Eat the bread,” she snapped, when they hesitated. They knew that voice; it meant that if they didn’t comply Mary would reach for her hairbrush. The two boys, growing into fine strapping men, sat down and reached for the bread themselves.
“Mom, Farther O’Dougal offered to perform a funeral,” Cassie began.
“No,” Mary snapped, her fury blazing through. “I will have nothing to do with him, understand?”
The children shrank back under her rage. It was true; for all that she was a God-fearing Christian, Mary had flatly refused to allow them to go to Church, or to receive formal Catholic education. Her children went to a public school; the sole religious education came from Sean or Mary. It was the source of much glossop in the Irish community, but few dared to object; the last thing the Church needed was more scandal.
“They’re making us learn about World War Two in class,” Donald said. Tall and tough, he was still respectful of his mother. If he hadn’t been, his father would have taught his behind the lesson. “Mom, the history teacher says that everything is going to change now…”
“And she might be right,” Mary said absently. When news of Ireland – that it was the past Ireland – had been on television, a thought had occurred to her. She’d been born in 1960, but her parents were children in 1940; she was older than her parents. There was someone else she was older than, but that thought refused to form clearly in her mind.
Cassie put the television on. The BBC speaker spoke at length about a German u-boat that had surrendered near Orkney, before moving onto local news. A race riot had erupted – again – in London, following some of the Contemporary personnel from 1940 trying to find their families. They’d been less than amused to discover that their homes had become Asian districts and their remarks had provoked a riot. Mary tuned it out, concentrating on ensuring that her children had their schoolbags packed and that they were ready to go.
“The Scottish Tourist Group today announced the formation of new tourist trips to Ireland,” the speaker said, and Mary’s attention whipped back to the television. “Spurred by suggestions that many people would like to visit the 1940 Ireland, particularly now that the IRA and the other paramilitary terrorist groups have been wiped out, they have now arranged new tourist trips. For further information, log onto their website; trips will cost forty pounds of British money.”
“Cassie, go log onto their website,” Mary ordered, spying Sally about to pour salt into Donald’s boots. “Stop that,” she snapped, smacking Sally firmly on the rear. “Cassie, move before school.”
“Yes, Mom,” Cassie said, running into the next room. Mary had learned how to type for a typing course – Sean had joked that he would one day dictate his memoirs to her – but using the Internet was beyond her. She cleaned up the table, hearing Cassie type, and washed the table with a cloth, before shoeing the other children out of the door.
“It’s up,” Cassie said, running back into the kitchen and scooping up her bag. She gave Mary a kiss and ran out of the door, leaving Mary alone. Carefully, she left her tasks aside, feeling her heart break as her eye fell on Sean’s favourite mug, and entered the computer room. Cassie had been as good as her word; the website for the Scottish Tourist Group was on the screen.
Let’s see, Mary thought, brushing aside her silvering hair. She’d been a natural redhead, which had attracted boys, then men, and one other, to her. She’d had it hacked off once; Sean had never known. For all his decency, Sean could never have allowed an insult to his wife – and she’d been far more than just insulted – to go unpunished.
The website boasted of specially-booked hotels in Dublin, Cork and several other locations. Tourists would be shipped to one of the docks and transported to the hotel, then either allowed to go off on their own or escorted around the Island. A list of prohibited items followed; computers, history books and portable televisions, along with a handful of other items. Mary smiled; she didn’t know much about technology, but she was certain that a computer was useless without a power supply – and batteries didn’t last that long. Certain regions, including Northern Ireland, were out of bounds, with a note that anyone taken as a hostage by the remains of the IRA – simultaneously denying that any such remnants existed – would not be bargained for or any monies paid for their release. ‘Travel at own risk’ seemed to be the bottom line, something Mary approved of; it was something that Sean would have approved of as well.
Taking her life in her hands, Mary noted the telephone number and dialled, reaching the office after only five minutes on hold. “Hello,” she said. “I would like to book a place on one of the tourist trips to Ireland.”
“Certainly, madam,” the operator said. “The earliest is four days from today; is that acceptable?”
“Yes, of course,” Mary said, and gave her details. Between Sean and her, they had more than enough money to cover the trip and a booked room in a hotel, even if she didn’t use it. “Thank you for your trouble.”
She put down the phone and allowed herself a sigh of relief. She would go to Ireland, and she would see her parents, and then she would see someone else. She thought of something Sean had brought home and taught her to use, something designed to keep her safe, and smiled. It would be used at last.
Chapter Fourteen: Plans and Preparations
Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
18th July 1940
Admiral Somerville stepped inside the PJHQ’s main briefing room and shook his head. On the surface, it seemed far less luxurious than the rooms that Sir Dudley Pound had commanded the Royal Navy from, but the amount of information at the fingertips of the men and women who worked there was astonishing. Even more astonishing was the sexual equality; this Royal Navy had female captains, female admirals, even a female First Sea Lord. Admiral Joan Grisham, he’d discovered since being flown to the future Britain, didn’t take any crap from anyone.