Not for the Telling

By Alan Paisey

A minor road accident led to a chance meeting of two new undergraduates, whose origins, study paths, and potential employment proved to be so contrasting. War was out of the question at the time, but when it arrived it enabled both women to devote their interests to a common objective. One found her metier in the air. Though discouraged by the exclusion of women from flying in the air force, nevertheless she seized a golden opportunity to fly in the service of her country. Her wartime record was distinguished and record breaking. Meanwhile, the other was recruited into an anti-espionage service designed to curb the activities of those citizens who were bent on crippling the national effort, if and when war actually came. The ensuing wartime enabled both women to excel in their respective duties, one in the physical sense, the other surreptitiously. On leaving university their ways had taken them apart, through unexpected adventures, trials, tribulations and various love matches, but a second sheer chance in their lives brought them together again, after losing each other and forgetting their former friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398420700

Alan Paisey

Alan Paisey was born in Swindon. After military service he graduated and entered the teaching profession, working in schools in Southwark and Lambeth in central London, then on the staff of Bulmershe College, University of Reading, from which he retired as head of the Administrative Studies Division.

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About the Author

Alan Paisey retired as head of administrative studies at Bulmershe College, University of Reading. He has published over thirty books in education management, transfer pricing, biography and army and air force military history. This is his fifth novel, following A Bond to Serve, A Rum Affair, Her Cell of Straw and Lyndsey.

Dedication

To Sheila

Copyright Information ©

Alan Paisey 2022

The right of Alan Paisey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398405820 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398420700 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2022

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Summary

A minor road accident led to a chance meeting of two new undergraduates, whose origins, study paths, and potential employment proved to be so contrasting. War was out of the question at the time, but when it arrived it enabled both women to devote their interests to a common objective.

One found her métier in the air. Though discouraged by the exclusion of women from flying in the air force, nevertheless she seized a golden opportunity to fly in the service of her country. Her wartime record was distinguished and record breaking. Meanwhile, the other was recruited into an anti-espionage service designed to curb the activities of those citizens who were bent on crippling the national effort, if and when war actually came.

The ensuing wartime enabled both women to excel in their respective duties, one in the physical sense, the other surreptitiously. On leaving university their ways had taken them apart, through unexpected adventures, trials, tribulations and various love matches, but a second sheer chance in their lives brought them together again, after losing each other and forgetting their former friendship.

Chapter 1

She braked sharply, but just a little too late. An unsupervised frolic of schoolchildren suddenly took it into their heads to cross the road. Their precipitate act was the undoing of the hesitant car driver, distracted by the young people, exuberant on meeting each other at the beginning of a new day on their way to school.

She momentarily took her eyes off the cyclist in front of her. Although the sparse morning traffic over Magdalene Bridge was moving quite slowly on that crisp September morning, the near side front fender of her car collided with the back wheel of the bicycle, causing the rider to fall to the ground.

She switched off her ignition and literally half crawled in her haste to reach the unfortunate woman cyclist, but the rider was actually quicker than she. The driver’s frantic, apologetic scramble to make amends was totally lost on the cyclist. Already half on her feet, the woman then heard the car driver’s obvious, but deeply worried question.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I am,’ she replied, ‘but my bike has come off badly. Look at that. The rear wheel is broken. It’s not exactly a posh bike but it cannot stand the weight of a car running into it. Thank goodness you haven’t damaged my case.’

The car driver noted the case was securely strapped on the pannier bracket. She was relieved to hear the cyclist’s first response. Her reply clearly revealed that she was without injury. Her words in fact evoked the driver’s respect. They were well chosen, with a touch of humour, although the expression on her face reflected her disapproval to be so rudely denied the pursuit of her journey.

‘The bike is out of commission and we are holding up the traffic. Can I give you a lift? We can put the bike and the case in the car,’ the miscreant driver volunteered.

‘Yes. That would be helpful,’ the cyclist said, ‘we can settle the issue in the car. By chance, you are not carrying a replacement bicycle?’ She made the rhetorical question that lightened the interchange, bringing a small smile on the face of both young women.

Together they bundled the broken bicycle into the tiny back seat of the open Standard sports car. In seconds they resumed their onward journey at the leisurely pace of the Oxford streets, leaving no evidence of the minor collision.

‘Where do you want to be?’ the driver asked.

‘Woodstock Road. Sorry, it’s a bit to the other side of the city.’

‘That mustn’t matter. I owe it to you. I am a stranger to Oxford, having arrived only a few days ago. I haven’t yet worked out the best routes through the city.’

‘We could turn right into Longwall Street, which we are just passing, and go on an anticlockwise route to Woodstock Road, or we could go along the High Street and follow a clockwise direction through a maze of streets to reach it. It so happens that I’m going that way myself. By the way, I’m Michelle Webb.’

‘And I’m Lynda Morris and no relation to the carmaker, although I see you are driving a Standard car. It’s cute. It must be one of the car companies the Morris empire has not yet taken over. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, but it’s a thrill to ride in an open car through the streets of Oxford.’

‘It’s cheap to run. I will pay for the entire damage to your bike and give you my address. Which end of Woodstock Road will suit you? I owe it to you to drop you at your doorstep. It will be no trouble.’

‘Well, I actually need the Somerville College. I’m a new student, just joining. I was on my way to go for a briefing – to find out my room, the rules of the college and that sort of thing. I don’t know my way around Oxford yet. I have been staying at a hotel in Headington.’

Michelle replied. ‘Now there’s a coincidence. I am in exactly the same spot as you. That is where I am heading, too. I have been driving around the city from my hotel since I arrived to get my bearings. I hope you will not hold what I did to your bike against me every time you see me. I shall be tempted to walk the other way.’

For the first time Lynda laughed.

‘As a fellow student I want you to forget it. I hope we shall be able to discuss things of a rather more important nature than a broken back wheel on a bike on Magdalen Bridge. Are you looking forward to being at the university? What will you be reading?’

‘I’m excited about it,’ Michelle replied. ‘I have chosen geology. I have always been interested in what is underneath what I am standing on. One day perhaps I may be able to use it in industry.’

‘In that case, if you make it, you will be breaking the glass ceiling, I should think. There can’t be many girls reading geology.’

‘And what about you?’ Michelle asked.

‘I have been accepted for PPE.’

‘What on earth is that?’

‘Philosophy, politics, and economics. It’s very popular. I shall be looking for a job in administration, perhaps in social work, perhaps in industry, or teaching.’

‘It sounds as if you want to break glass ceilings, too. How far from Oxford is your home?’

‘Far enough. My father is dean of the cathedral church of St Nicholas, Newcastle-upon-Tyne. But you sound as if you come from these parts.’

‘Yes, but not as far as you. My father is the managing director of a car manufacturing company in Coventry, so my home is only about seventy miles to the north.’

In those few minutes the two women, both having reached their nineteenth birthday, had established their respective origins, the economic status and social standing of their families, and their personal career potentials. It provided initial confidence fuel to face the many demands their arrival at Somerville would present to them.

They soon reached the college. Michelle had no difficulty in parking the car. Few students shared the luxury she enjoyed. They both stood and stared at the huge, imposing brick building, Somerville Hall, as it was called when founded in 1879.

‘It’s a warmer sort of building than the usual colleges in Oxford,’ Lynda said. ‘And I like the non-denominational status of the place.’

‘I wondered why you didn’t prefer Lady Margaret Hall, the other all-female college. It was founded at the same time and is strongly Anglican,’ Michelle suggested softly, thus avoiding asking a blunt question.

‘You are inferring that, because my father is the dean of Newcastle Cathedral, I should stay close to the religious commitment. It is for that very reason that I chose Somerville, not to get away from anything but to widen my world of understanding.’

‘That sounds like an interesting point of view,’ Michelle commented. ‘I am sure we could talk about it someday. I was attracted by the same fact. I am also pleased that the college offers rooms for all its undergraduates for all three years. It can be such a fuss to have to room out of college for the second year, as a number of the colleges seem to require.’

They could see that many of the young women milling around were as new as they were themselves – not quite sure where to go, or whom to address. Many were walking on the grass lawns, evidently unaware that the freedom to do so at Somerville was an indulgence prohibited in other colleges.

Chapter 2

The days of strangeness to their college life soon gave way to utter familiarity with the rhythms of college life – their eight-week terms, three times a year. Formal commitments could be light enough to give them plenty of study time or for other less worthy usage. They had to keep appointments with tutors and could choose to attend university-wide seminars and lectures relevant to their interests. Libraries used much of their time. Michelle and Lynda were lucky. Apart from the main research Bodleian central university library, Somerville had the biggest college library in Oxford.

It was during the third term of their first year that happenstance widened their respective interests away from their studies. One day, in conversation with a third-year student in the Bodleian, Michelle gleaned that he enjoyed a Royal Air Force scholarship. His name was Philip Rockwell. In addition to his studies, he compulsorily attended regularly at the Oxford University squadron’s airfield, engaging in its activities.

‘What do you have to do to earn your scholarship?’ Michelle asked him.

‘In short, keep up my flying and discharge my share of ground duties,’ he replied.

‘What! In addition to your study commitments?’

‘Yes, it has been a bit like having two jobs at the same time,’ he explained. ‘The present base of the university squadron is at RAF Abingdon, five miles south-west of Oxford. I go there on average twice a week.’

‘That sounds as if you are a glutton for hard work,’ Michelle said.

‘The RAF taught me to fly before I came to Oxford. I was seventeen. At least, they organised it, at Birmingham airport. A private firm taught me to fly in the de Havilland Tiger Moth. Once you have that initial flying licence you have to fly a certain number of times a month to keep it valid. At Abingdon I have since progressed onto another type of aircraft.’

‘It all sounds like an interesting life you lead. I am wondering how much it costs your study time. You don’t have time to sit around. No time at all for girls.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Philip said. ‘I have to put first things first.’

‘It’s very interesting to me. It sounds exciting,’ Michelle concluded, turning to go and feeling she could not spare the time to spend in casual conversation.

‘I could take you for a visit, if you like.’

‘I am too busy really to do that sort of thing,’ Michelle replied.

‘Surely you can spare the time to make a visit. After all, I have to do both visits every week, alongside my studies and university commitments.’

Goaded by the man’s adverse comparison, she suddenly made up her mind.

‘All right, then. I will come with you. How do you travel there?’

‘By bus. There’s a frequent service.’

‘No need, I have a car. It will be my pleasure to drive you to your other job,’ she said, laughing. ‘The car isn’t doing very much these days to earn its keep. When shall we do it?’

On the agreed date, they set off in the Standard sports car with its canvas cover in place as a protection against the weather that still persisted in being wintry.

‘How do you manage to run a car like this?’ Philip asked.

‘It pays to be in the business,’ was her answer. ‘My father has a prominent job in car production. He set me up with the car when I won the place in Oxford.’

‘That’s the sort of dad to have, then. Do you have to look after it yourself?’

‘Absolutely. I have to pay the petrol and get it serviced.’

It was a day chosen by Philip when the squadron’s members could invite family members and friends to visit the airfield for a look at the activities of the work of the squadron. Philip was due to fly during the afternoon. She watched his competent take-off on a flight that set off on a course back over Oxford.

During his absence for half an hour, Michelle was invited to take some tea in a mess where a number of the squadron’s young members were congregating, a few in the company of their family or girlfriends.

An older officer chatted to her over tea.

‘Why are you visiting us today, miss?’

‘Philip Rockwell brought me. I am at the university. He thought I might be interested to see what the university air squadron is like in action.’

‘And how do you find us?’

‘I am surprised at the number of young men involved, although it is only a tiny proportion of the total of men undergraduates. And no women I notice.’

‘Of course, there are students from all three years and we have a small number of post-graduate members too. There are no women members as you see, reflecting the prohibition of women as aircrew in the service as a whole.’

‘Will it always be like that?’

‘I’m afraid so. I can see no change in the national practice of forbidding females to be in active service units. But they can fly, though, as you probably have noticed from the feats of women – many American – who have achieved notable flights around the world. Amelia Earhart was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic only four years ago, as you may remember.’

‘So they should. I can drive a car. There cannot be many differences.’

‘There are some similarities, I grant you, but the differences are fundamental. You can be trained to cope with them. In the air you cannot go backwards. All the time you are in a multidimensional choice of directions, according to the power of your engine, the speed you already have, and the wind. The one factor is absolute. You cannot stop. There is no ground to rest on if the car runs out of petrol, or the engine breaks down, or you collide with something.’

‘That’s a good way of putting it,’ Michelle assented. ‘I had given it little thought. Philip also mentioned he had to do ground duties.’

‘That includes their classroom studies, record keeping, and keeping-fit exercises. They are kept pretty busy for the time they spend on station.’

‘You have been most instructive and given me a lot to think about,’ Michelle told the officer. ‘It’s a pity you can’t recruit women.’

Philip returned from his training flight. He had to attend a class for an hour, leaving Michelle to drift around talking with anyone willing to exchange some conversation. She used the time to learn more about the squadron’s activities and the art and science of flying in general.

On the way back to the university in the car, Philip was anxious to know if she had enjoyed her visit. She seemed to be more exuberant than she had been when they drove to the airfield.

‘Were you bored enough to wish not going again?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact I found it all fascinating, particularly my chat with the elderly officer in the mess. I’m not quite sure yet, but I may be finding this could be a day which changed my life.’

‘Oh, that’s terrific. I hope the change will be for flying and not against it. I hope you will keep in touch and let me know if you want to make a visit again.’

They parted as friends. Michelle was deeply excited by her discoveries of the day, so much so that she made up her mind to do something about it. She met Philip again by chance the following week.

‘Hello, Michelle, are you still thinking about your visit?’

‘Yes, I am. I forget to ask you who pays the expenses for your flying.’

‘In short, I pay nothing. The RAF in effect pays me. I was offered a flying scholarship in my last year at school, as I told you, to learn to fly. When that was successfully done I officially joined the RAF with the rank of acting pilot officer. From then on I was doing my job. The RAF pays my expenses for my university studies.’

‘It sounds like something to strive for, but disappointing that girls are ineligible,’ she commented.

Michelle declined another visit on the grounds that the long summer break was coming up, while Philip became preoccupied with final examinations at the end of his third year.

Nevertheless, she secretly formulated her own plans.

She tracked down the civilian flying training company at Birmingham airport and applied for training to fly during the months of summer. The charges made her hold her breath. It would cost twenty pounds an hour and require up to fifteen hours of flying, more if needed.

She had a chat with her father. He was so pleased that she would spend her whole vacation at home, or nearby at Birmingham airport, that he listened to her story with interest and finally agreed to support her financially. Her parents had expected that in her vacation time she would be travelling away with friends or a partner, roaming the United Kingdom, if not abroad, as so many other students were reputed to do.

As it happened, Lynda also had an unexpected event in that third term. It was out of the blue, nothing she could ever have imagined. It certainly had the potential to fulfil her desire to widen her experience of the world. During the second week into the term she attended her normal tutorial as usual in the room of a tutor in another college.

The tutor handed her an unstamped letter addressed to her. ‘I saw it on the desk in the gateway office as I stopped for something or other. I offered to bring it to you to save its being sent to Somerville.’

She slit open the envelope. It was a single sheet of paper addressed formally to her, with the request to attend a private address in Oxford. She was advised to check with the principal of her college on the authenticity of the request.

She managed to gain an appointment to see the principal the same afternoon at an early hour.

‘I’ve had a note inviting me to visit a private address in the city. No reason is given, but I can check with you on its authenticity. Can you help me?’

‘Yes, of course. All I can tell you is that it is a legitimate address and request for your visit. I have no hesitation in advising you to comply.’

‘But isn’t it unusual not to state the reason for such a request?’

‘My advice is only on the grounds that they deal with matters of a public nature that have nothing to do with the university’s responsibilities for the education system, although they may relate to them in an independent way.’

Lynda left the principal’s office only a little the wiser, but intrigued, and assured that she would not be placed in personal jeopardy. The one effect her brief interview with the principal had on her was her growing feeling of curiosity. She sensed a shadow of secrecy lurked over the matter.

She had to resort to her fully repaired bike to make the distance to the address. It was a large house on a main street but displaying nothing out of the ordinary. When she rang the bell a young woman with penetrating eyes answered the door.

She’s no maid servant I’ll be bound, Lynda thought.

‘Good afternoon.’ It was all the woman said.

‘I have come in response to a letter to visit this address.’

‘Please come in. I will show you into the lounge. I will be back shortly.’

Lynda noted there were no other people in the house as far as she could see, but in only a few minutes an older man and the same woman returned to the lounge.

They formally confirmed that she was Lynda Morris, aged twenty, but did not introduce each other. Lynda was quick to notice that fact. Perhaps the woman noticed she had done so, since the next words she spoke suggested the possibility. If so, she was very sharp.

‘We will introduce ourselves after our talk together, but if you are not interested in our suggestions our names will then not matter to you.’

Her comment only heightened the curiosity that became overwhelming. Lynda began to sense something was about to happen that had the potential to make a difference to her life. It might seem irrational, but she was intelligent enough to read the underlying means and implications of the interchange involved so far, to make such a deduction.

The woman’s statement only added to the secrecy, which had already gathered around the whole issue for Lynda. She waited with her breath slightly quickening. She controlled herself, portraying a calm and confident attitude that overshadowed the dash of diffidence she felt.

‘Let’s have a seat,’ the man said. ‘We would like to offer you a drink. It can be tea, coffee, or a glass of wine.’

‘A cup of tea will be good,’ Lynda said.

Before he sat down, he walked to an internal bell and pressed it. Hurried steps could be heard on the tiles of the hall floor outside the lounge. A woman, whose appearance also did not fit the job she was summoned to do, came through the door.

‘Please, can you fix us with three teas?’

Without a word she retreated, her footsteps gradually fading on the tiles as she went to the kitchen.

The man began to speak in earnest.

‘You will probably be aware of the geo-political situation in Europe, notably because you are taking PPE. The Spanish civil war has been running now for over a year.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Lynda said. ‘The events have certainly enlivened the politics part of my course. In fact, I think it is having a general effect on students at large.’

‘What you may not yet be aware of is the British government’s secret preparations for eventual war if it has to be,’ the woman continued. ‘The call-up of reservists, the construction of new airfields, the commissioning of new types of military aircraft and the building of naval ships are going on as we speak.’

‘Yes, these are the tangible side of the preparations underway,’ the man added. ‘But there is also the intangible side to take into consideration. It may take longer to train people for covert work of all kinds that war will engender.’

‘Why are you saying this to me?’ Lynda asked. ‘I’m only a humble undergraduate, keen to get my degree and eventually a job.’

They ignored her questioning protest while the tea arrived.

The conversation was taken a step further over tea, when the woman mentioned something that electrified Lynda.

‘You turned in a major paper for your course entitled Overt and Latent Enemies Within. Someone asked us to read it – as in the practice of an external examiner. Your patriotism is unmistakable. You attribute various degrees of unreliability to the overt threats to national interests made implicit by the followers of the fascist party in Britain, the British supporters of the republican movement in Spain, and