With her head on one side Betty made a cooing noise at Tuppence.
‘She has taken to you, Mrs Blenkensop,’ said Mrs Sprot.
There was a slight jealous chill, Tuppence fancied, in her voice. Tuppence hastened to adjust matters.
‘They always like a new face, don’t they?’ she said easily.
The door opened and Major Bletchley and Tommy appeared. Tuppence became arch.
‘Ah, Mr Meadowes,’ she called out. ‘I’ve beaten you, you see. First past the post. But I’ve left you just a little breakfast!’
She indicated with the faintest of gestures the seat beside her.
Tommy, muttering vaguely: ‘Oh—er—rather—thanks,’ sat down at the other end of the table.
Betty Sprot said ‘Putch!’ with a fine splutter of milk at Major Bletchley, whose face instantly assumed a sheepish but delighted expression.
‘And how’s little Miss Bo Peep this morning?’ he asked fatuously. ‘Bo Peep!’ He enacted the play with a newspaper.
Betty crowed with delight.
Serious misgivings shook Tuppence. She thought:
‘There must be some mistake. There can’t be anything going on here. There simply can’t!’
To believe in Sans Souci as a headquarters of the Fifth Column needed the mental equipment of the White Queen in Alice.
On the sheltered terrace outside, Miss Minton was knitting.
Miss Minton was thin and angular, her neck was stringy. She wore pale sky-blue jumpers, and chains or bead necklaces. Her skirts were tweedy and had a depressed droop at the back. She greeted Tuppence with alacrity.
‘Good morning, Mrs Blenkensop. I do hope you slept well.’
Mrs Blenkensop confessed that she never slept very well the first night or two in a strange bed. Miss Minton said, Now, wasn’t that curious? It was exactly the same with her.
Mrs Blenkensop said, ‘What a coincidence, and what a very pretty stitch that was.’ Miss Minton, flushing with pleasure, displayed it. Yes, it was rather uncommon, and really quite simple. She could easily show it to Mrs Blenkensop if Mrs Blenkensop liked. Oh, that was very kind of Miss Minton, but Mrs Blenkensop was so stupid, she wasn’t really very good at knitting, not at following patterns, that was to say. She could only do simple things like Balaclava helmets, and even now she was afraid she had gone wrong somewhere. It didn’t look right, somehow, did it?
Miss Minton cast an expert eye over the khaki mass. Gently she pointed out just what had gone wrong. Thankfully, Tuppence handed the faulty helmet over. Miss Minton exuded kindness and patronage. Oh, no, it wasn’t a trouble at all. She had knitted for so many years.
‘I’m afraid I’ve never done any before this dreadful war,’ confessed Tuppence. ‘But one feels so terribly, doesn’t one, that one must do something.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. And you actually have a boy in the Navy, I think I heard you say last night?’
‘Yes, my eldest boy. Such a splendid boy he is—though I suppose a mother shouldn’t say so. Then I have a boy in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is out in France.’
‘Oh dear, dear, how terribly anxious you must be.’
Tuppence thought:
‘Oh Derek, my darling Derek… Out in the hell and mess—and here I am playing the fool—acting the thing I’m really feeling…’
She said in her most righteous voice:
‘We must all be brave, mustn’t we? Let’s hope it will all be over soon. I was told the other day on very high authority indeed that the Germans can’t possibly last out more than another two months.’
Miss Minton nodded with so much vigour that all her bead chains rattled and shook.
‘Yes, indeed, and I believe’—(her voice lowered mysteriously)—‘that Hitler is suffering from a disease—absolutely fatal—he’ll be raving mad by August.’
Tuppence replied briskly:
‘All this Blitzkrieg is just the Germans’ last effort. I believe the shortage is something frightful in Germany. The men in the factories are very dissatisfied. The whole thing will crack up.’
‘What’s this? What’s all this?’
Mr and Mrs Cayley came out on the terrace, Mr Cayley putting his questions fretfully. He settled himself in a chair and his wife put a rug over his knees. He repeated fretfully:
‘What’s that you are saying?’
‘We’re saying,’ said Miss Minton, ‘that it will all be over by the autumn.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Cayley. ‘This war is going to last at least six years.’
‘Oh, Mr Cayley,’ protested Tuppence. ‘You don’t really think so?’
Mr Cayley was peering about him suspiciously.
‘Now I wonder,’ he murmured. ‘Is there a draught? Perhaps it would be better if I moved my chair back into the corner.’
The resettlement of Mr Cayley took place. His wife, an anxious-faced woman who seemed to have no other aim in life than to minister to Mr Cayley’s wants, manipulating cushions and rugs, asking from time to time: ‘Now how is that, Alfred? Do you think that will be all right? Ought you, perhaps, to have your sun-glasses? There is rather a glare this morning.’
Mr Cayley said irritably:
‘No, no. Don’t fuss, Elizabeth. Have you got my muffler? No, no, my silk muffler. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I dare say this will do—for once. But I don’t want to get my throat overheated, and wool—in this sunlight—well, perhaps you had better fetch the other.’ He turned his attention back to matters of public interest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I give it six years.’
He listened with pleasure to the protests of the two women.
‘You dear ladies are just indulging in what we call wishful thinking. Now I know Germany. I may say I know Germany extremely well. In the course of my business before I retired I used to be constantly to and fro. Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, I know them all. I can assure you that Germany can hold out practically indefinitely. With Russia behind her—’
Mr Cayley plunged triumphantly on, his voice rising and falling in pleasurably melancholy cadences, only interrupted when he paused to receive the silk muffler his wife brought him and wind it round his throat.
Mrs Sprot brought out Betty and plumped her down with a small woollen dog that lacked an ear and a woolly doll’s jacket.
‘There, Betty,’ she said. ‘You dress up Bonzo ready for his walk while Mummy gets ready to go out.’
Mr Cayley’s voice droned on, reciting statistics and figures, all of a depressing character. The monologue was punctuated by a cheerful twittering from Betty talking busily to Bonzo in her own language.
‘Truckle—truckly—pah bat,’ said Betty. Then, as a bird alighted near her, she stretched out loving hands to it and gurgled. The bird flew away and Betty glanced round the assembled company and remarked clearly:
‘Dicky,’ and nodded her head with great satisfaction.
‘That