This is the thirty-seventh part of a fiction serial, in 747 words.
The time with George in Berlin was the best that Hettie could remember. Walks in the parks, small cafes for coffee and cake, even an afternoon in a rowing boat on the river. Each date they had was memorised, from his witty remarks, self-deprecating jokes, or the feel of his strong arm as they walked along the street.
His trips away rarely lasted more than forty-eight hours, and though she was desperately worried every time he told her he wouldn’t be around for a while, he always came back safely. The nights in his room seemed to get better every time, and they would talk about when they could get married and live together properly. It had stopped becoming a dream for them, and they were planning for the reality. George talked about charming villages on the north-east coast near when he came from. Property was cheap, and nobody would know their past.
At work, she continued to get on well with Margaret, and Colin was replaced by a woman. She was very serious, and had a degree in German from Cambridge. Her name was Alison Magee, and although she spoke like any other posh university graduate, her family had originally come from Ireland. There was something about her that Hettie couldn’t put her finger on, but she found it hard to trust her.
The years passed by, with Hettie feeling completely settled in Berlin. Then something happened. Something big.
In the autumn of nineteen fifty-six, there was a popular uprising against Soviet rule in Hungary. It didn’t last long, with the Russian army invading the country and putting the revolution down ruthlessly. And it had little effect on Hettie, who carried on as normal. But it was common knowledge that MI6 had agents in Budapest, both British and Hungarian. With little news coming out, and many agents unable to be contacted at all, decisions were made in London that would affect Hettie more than she could ever imagine.
George told her one night in bed, after a romantic dinner in the first restaurant they had been to so long ago. He had to go on a job, and all he could tell her was that it involved the urgent extrication of a particular agent before they fell into enemy hands. She didn’t bother to ask more, she knew in her heart it was Hungary. That would involve crossing into Austria, then making his way to the border. If he was going to Budapest, that would be across almost two hundred miles of hostile territory.
Hettie reminded herself that he knew his job, and would almost certainly be part of a small team. The operation would have been planned in detail before he had felt able to tell her about his absence. They did this kind of thing all the time, and were not about to take any chances. But that didn’t stop her being worried sick.
Especially when he told her he was leaving the next day.
As always, he had been casual, upbeat, almost dismissive. When he saw her furrowed brow he tried to ease her worries. “Howay, pet. I’ll be back long before Christmas, and might even bring you back a turkey”.
Not wishing to add any stress or complications, she laughed it off, telling him to try to find some Christmas Pudding where he was going, and to make sure he told her what he wanted as a Christmas present in plenty of time. But when she left his room the next morning, she was trembling as she walked along the street.
Trying to pretend all was well at work wasn’t easy. She couldn’t discuss his mission, as she was not supposed to know anything about his movements. Besides, she worked in the German Section, and they had nothing to do with Hungary. Even if she wanted to know more she would have to make a formal request to another section, and that just couldn’t happen.
When he wasn’t back by Christmas, she sat alone in her room looking at the snow outside and wondering if George was hiding out somewhere, freezing cold. Margaret and Bill had said there were going to be drinks after dinner, but she had taken her meal back to her room and made the excuse she wasn’t feeling well. If they suspected why her mood was low, nothing was said.
The day she turned fifty-six in the new year was bitingly cold. And she still hadn’t heard from George.