The Telegram

This has been a long story to both research and write for obvious reasons but I would like to think those who have helped with some helpful hints, you know who you are so thank you. It's set in wartime Britain and the only obvious mistake is one of the characters revealing she works for SOE. That was considered a breach of both protocol and national security but I included that scene for plot and to develop the character arc. With that in mind I hope you enjoy this story. Shaima

The historical events in this story actually happened but the characters are purely fictional. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Glasgow 29 October 1942

The threatened rainstorm arrived at precisely 5:00 pm, just as Agnes stepped off the bus. She moved forward as three more women got off and raised her face to the skies and felt the water falling on her face with a mixture of weariness and relief. It always rained in this part of the country and when it wasn't raining the biting cold seeped into the very marrow of her bones, but by the looks of things the storm would last most of the night and that boded well for the residents of Glasgow. Heavy cloud cover meant that the German bombers would likely head for Liverpool, Manchester or London. It also meant that the blackout wardens would be a little more relaxed tonight.

She turned her face to the street as she picked out her house on the corner, it was the only detached dwelling on a street filled with tenement buildings. It had been a blessing before the war with the extra privacy but since her Frank had gone away to war it had become like a mausoleum, big and lonely. She'd had boarders in during the London Blitz but they had moved on three months ago leaving her on her own again. She clutched her shopping bag tightly to her breast and started walking, mentally going over the routine she'd planned earlier in the day. Tonight would be leek soup to go with the leftover bread and the ham she'd managed to buy tonight.

She turned when she reached the front door and noticed one of the women was still standing at the bus stop, the other two women were halfway down the street. Her eyes narrowed as she studied her. The woman was above average height with sculpted hair that fell to her shoulders, now protected from the rain by a black umbrella. She wore a brown overcoat with a scarf tucked inside it. A large suitcase by her feet had her wondering now.

Agnes vaguely remembered her from when she'd boarded the bus at Central Station, she'd only glanced up briefly but the impression she had was of an extraordinarily beautiful woman who seemed almost bemused by her fellow passengers. The woman was counting the building numbers, turning at the same time until finally she was looking right at Agnes's house. She lowered her hand and a moment later she picked up her suitcase and started walking towards her front door.

At first Agnes thought she was going to walk right past but then she came to a stop some six feet from her door. It was only now that Agnes could get a good look at her face. She had an angular shaped face and a firm chin, her most noticeable features were her bright blue eyes and after that her flawless skin. She looked to be about twenty five although it was hard to tell, she looked down at her black shoes polished to a high shine.

"Mrs MacDonald?"

"Agnes MacDonald," she replied.

"Josephine Brown," she smiled, "the housing office said you had a room to let."

It was only then that Agnes registered what it was about the woman that was so different, she was wearing trousers and they weren't the dull brown trousers worn by women working for the military. These trousers were black and looked expensive. Josephine noticed her eye movement and managed a tight smile.

"Paris, 1940. I bought these just as the German columns were getting near to Paris, the poor shopkeeper was so desperate to get rid of as many clothes as possible he practically gave them away. I walked in to buy one pair of trousers and walked out with a suitcase full of clothes," she stepped forward as Agnes stepped back.

"But at least he made a profit on the clothes," she stepped over the threshold, "the Germans were looting every shop in sight and God help you if you were Jewish."

Agnes didn't reply to that, the woman had an American accent but she had none of the confident bravado she associated with Americans. She seemed to carry herself with a quiet confidence.

"I hate the Nazis," she closed the door behind her, "my husband is away in Egypt fighting the Germans."

Josephine opened her mouth to reply but then shut it again as someone knocked at the door. Agnes stared at the door and smiled crookedly.

"Maybe it's someone else wanting the room too, I'd forgotten the advertisement was still there," she opened the door at the same time and then froze as she saw the telegram boy who had just removed his cap the moment the door opened. He couldn't have been more than sixteen but by the look on his face she knew that her world had been turned upside down. Telegram boys were nicknamed angels of death by poorer people because the only time they delivered a telegram it was to inform them that their husband or son was missing in action or dead. In an instant today's date flashed in her mind, Thursday, the 29th of October, a date that would remain fixed in her mind until she too passed from this world.

"I'm so sorry, madam," he looked past her at Josephine and seemed to hesitate as he tried to work out which woman was the recipient.

"No reply," Agnes took the envelope from him.

He nodded politely and then backed away. Agnes stared after him, her Frank's first job had been as a telegram boy years ago. She became aware of a rustle of clothing behind her as Josephine took a step forward. She closed the door and put her back to it as their eyes met.

"Your husband?"

She nodded and felt as if she was outside her own body looking at this pathetic woman standing by the door with a few tattered envelopes and the telegram in her hand and then she came to with a start as Josephine nodded at the door.

"I'm so sorry, I can come back later or stay for a bit. Sometimes company is better than sitting there alone."

"Stay," she finally answered, "you've come this far. Frank would think me impolite if I asked you to leave."

Josephine bent down and picked up her suitcase and the shopping bag, and followed Agnes through to the front room. She felt as if her feet were made of lead and when Josephine put the suitcase on the floor Agnes sat down slowly and stared at the telegram.

"He used to be a telegram boy," she spoke into the distance between them, "it was his first job and then he became a newspaperman."

Josephine perched on the edge of the chair opposite her and chanced a glance out the window as the rain got heavier. Agnes also noticed it and then she stared at the telegram again as if it was going to open itself and start reciting the message orally. Josephine had seen these telegrams a few times over the last couple of years, the script rarely deviated. She glanced at her suitcase and once again contemplated excusing herself but then a muffled sob changed her mind.

"It's so fucking unfair," Agnes blew her nose, "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."

"It's all right, you should hear me in full war cry," Josephine smiled tightly.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Josephine continued.

"I'll get it, I'll get it."

"I know you can," Josephine rose and walked to her suitcase, "but I've got some tea," their eyes met and she smiled slyly, "black market tea at that."

Prior to tonight Agnes might have considered it somewhat unethical, after all, rationing was their way of helping their men in the field but after receiving the telegram, and even without reading it she felt almost disconnected from the moral debate over black market tea.

"Thank you," her voice came in a whisper, "I'll put the kettle on."

"Allow me," Josephine replied, "consider this my first test, after all, if I can't heat water in a kettle and make tea then I'm not going to be a very good tenant."

Agnes opened her mouth to reply and then shut it again as Josephine opened her suitcase and took out the tea. She did notice though that the woman's clothes seemed to be much nicer than her own. A wardrobe like that could catch any man's eye and she turned once more to the telegram and finally opened it.

The message was sparse, merely informing Agnes that her husband, Sergeant Frank MacDonald had been killed in action. For such a dramatic event the wording was quite sparse and even given the fact that there was a charge for every word, she would have liked to know more and yet she knew it was impossible to transmit that kind of information to every fallen or missing soldier's family. As a teenager she'd dreamed of getting a telegram from the King, now she had her very own telegram.

"How do you like your tea?" Josephine disturbed her reverie.

"Black," she sighed, "I used up my milk ration two days ago, it's what I feared, my husband was killed in action but it doesn't say anything more than that."

Josephine folded her arms and stepped further into the room. She already knew the exact wording, more or less. It was a time-honoured script that only deviated in the case of a high ranking officer but for an ordinary soldier it was always the same and that was confirmed as she peered over Agnes's shoulder.

"They charge by the word, the great irony of war is that for all the stirring martial music and emotion, when it comes to fighting a war it's always about the money."

"I know about the charge," she murmured half to herself.

Josephine almost put out a hand to touch her shoulder but then Agnes looked up and stared at the wedding picture hanging on the wall, trying to match the man in the picture with the one mentioned in the telegram. Josephine's pure logic seemed to cut through the fog and mist of a war that had dragged on for just over three years if one counted the Sitzkrieg whilst Germany dealt with Poland, Denmark and Norway.

Josephine stepped back and retreated to the kitchen but glanced over her shoulder as she reached the doorway. Agnes was an attractive woman, she had auburn hair that fell past her shoulderblades and a trim figure, her face was serene and she almost looked distracted as she stared out the window. A moment later she stepped further into the kitchen and out of sight, leaving her some privacy but she felt for the woman even though she'd never known Frank.

She saw Simone's face in her mind's eye, the morning she'd been arrested by the police. She'd had that same look in her eyes, almost as if she suspected or had already anticipated her arrest. She pushed the memory back into the furthest recesses of her mind and stepped back into the kitchen to finish making the tea.

Some five minutes later she came through with two cups of tea on a tray decorated with a picture of the royal family. She'd looked for another tray but this was the only one she could find and as she set it down on the small table by the window Agnes stared at the solemn face of King George.

"I really should come back another time," she spoke quietly.

"Stay," Agnes reached out and grabbed her wrist, "for the night at least, I'm sorry that I can't make a decision tonight but you're right. Company is what I need right now."

"All right," Josephine inclined her head, "I'll stay the night," she turned her hand slightly as Agnes grabbed her hand, "we can talk in the morning."

She stared blankly ahead as Agnes held on a little longer, the other woman had no idea of her sexual orientation. Had she known she might not be holding her hand, let alone considering her as a potential tenant. She came out of her reverie a few moments later as Agnes released her hand and settled back into the couch.

"At least we can get to know one another a little better," Josephine replied.

Agnes smiled timidly at that and Josephine fought the urge to take her hand yet again. There were times she found herself lapsing back into her former self, the woman she'd been before her marriage. It had pleased her mother but not so much her father who thought the American a little too brash and abrasive.

"You're American?" Agnes asked her.

"I'm Canadian," she replied, "born in Montreal, "but I was working in France as a teacher before the war, I lived there for eight years."

"And your husband?"

"Isaac lives in America, he's a scientist doing war work."

"You must miss each other terribly," her eyes shifted.

"We manage to survive," she smiled tightly, "he's a very understanding man and his work is very important to the war."

Agnes stared at her and for a split second Josephine thought her secret had been uncovered in the shifting glance but then Agnes returned the smile.

"That's nice, what do you do here?"

"I'm a teacher of French, Russian, and German," she picked up the teapot and started pouring the tea, "it is also war work but I cannot tell you any more than that I'm afraid."

"Of course," Agnes glanced down at the teapot, "loose lips and all that."

"Precisely, and you?"

"I was making uniforms but now I am packing parachutes. It's not so glamorous perhaps but it is necessary, we must all do our bit as they say."

Their conversation moved onto other matters. Josephine's father had been a pilot for Pan American before the war but now flew planes from a factory to various airbases throughout the United States, a job he'd confessed to be as boring as hell.

By the time Agnes went to bed that night she'd already made up her mind about Josephine even though she hadn't told her. The Canadian woman was both intelligent and graceful and yes, she was a beautiful woman but not once did she suspect that her latest boarder had a secret life. When she told Josephine the next day that she could stay for as long as she wanted the other woman thanked her and promised to be discreet, which Agnes found vaguely unsettling.

Discreet about what?

It was a question that seemed almost to be an enigma because over the next month or so she never saw any sign that Josephine was cheating on her husband and yet she rarely mentioned his name and indeed no letters arrived from him. That could be explained perhaps by the siege-like conditions imposed by the U-boats, even essential items were in short supply but apart from that, she seemed almost content to be apart from her husband.

However the primary reason Agnes never probed too deeply into Josephine's marital status was because she was still absorbing and dealing with the profound sense of loss and the grief over losing her own husband. There were days she could hear his voice almost as if he was in the next room and then she'd blink and the voice was gone. On many occasions she'd glance up as the front door opened, expecting Frank to come in from work only to realise that it was Josephine coming in from work or a shopping expedition and she'd feel as if she was sinking into a black hole of misery and despair.

Her behaviour could even be described as erratic and compulsive. She pored over the daily newspapers, searching for news of the war in North Africa and in particular, Egypt because that's where Frank had been when he was killed. Outwardly she told people she was just keeping up with the news but deep down she was hoping that Frank was still alive, maybe he'd been presumed dead only to reappear in a news story. But as the battle lines shifted back and forth at El Alamein her hopes began fading and in desperation she went to a psychic who lived in one of the houses in the next street. Predictably enough, the psychic told her that her husband was safe and would return one day, she clung onto that thought for the better part of three days before succumbing to grief and sadness.

Ultimately the only thing that pulled her through apart from the basic need to feed herself and go to work was Josephine, whose quiet demeanour and confidence became more and more comforting with every passing week. It was a stark contrast to some of her neighbours, mostly women who fussed over her and tried to find words of wisdom to lift her out of the blackness. However after six weeks even they began to distance themselves and Agnes was once more left alone with her thoughts and her new boarder. If she'd had her wits about her she might have noticed the way the other women regarded Josephine with studied intent and how they sometimes asked about her husband in America.

The Canadian fielded all of these questions expertly and without appearing irritated by their interest in her husband and as she began to emerge from her self-imposed exile, Agnes found herself warming to Josephine. She paid her board and lodgings every week on time and always seemed able to come up with surprising little things like extra tea, some milk and on two occasions, chocolate. Agnes suspected she had contacts on the black market but never questioned her about it, instead she just thanked her for the extra provisions and pretended that it was all above board and legal.

However Agnes was not the only one dealing with demons. Josephine was still struggling with her new role as language instructor. The teaching part was easy enough but there were other women at the house who gravitated towards her in the same way Agnes did, and whilst she found some of them attractive she was careful not to expose herself to them. They were all straight women and before the war had either been in mundane jobs or housewives, so working alongside a woman who had fought in Occupied France was something of a novelty to them.

There were a few women in her two classes, which not only involved language studies but also French culture, the little subtleties that distinguished a 'native' French person from a person who had merely acquired the language. The Gestapo and the average German soldier might be fooled but their collaborators, the French Milice would not be so easily fooled by a faux pas. A woman's looks could only take her so far before the spotlight showed up the blemishes beneath the makeup.

However it was not the women in her classes who caused her the most concern, they would be parachuted into Occupied France and be out of sight, out of mind. Rather it was those women who formed part of the clerical staff, for they were always there and one woman in particular seemed to have taken quite a shine to her.

Mary Davidson came from an upper class family in the West End, a few streets away from Agnes's place. The youngest child in a family of five daughters she had capitalised on being the baby of the family and carried this persona on into her adult life. Her father was serving in India but in general conversation Josephine gathered that even before the war he was very much the absent father. Her mother was the strongest voice and with the combination of a strong mother and four other sisters, Mary had very different ideas about the role of women in society. Not for her the more traditional womanly pursuits. She wanted to be on the front line, if the rules had allowed it she would have flown bombers over Occupied Europe.

However her impishness and childlike demeanour precluded even the thought of putting her onto the SOE program and Josephine had been approached by her superiors. She'd flatly refused to consider it. Whilst her childlike persona might belay suspicion for a while, in time the dreaded Milice would focus their attention on her and the thought of Mary falling into their hands was beyond comprehension.

Mary however seemed almost oblivious to this and did her best to play up to Josephine, even to the point of flirting, which was somewhat amusing and troubling in equal measure because she had no way of knowing Josephine's sexual orientation. In the absence of war, Josephine might even have let it play out because she had an innocence about her that was definitely attractive, but the fates had other ideas it seemed when Josephine casually mentioned to one of the other women that she was looking for material to cover a second couch she and Agnes were trying to restore.