Page 33 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

32

LISBON, 1941

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before my flight, I was so nervous and excited. It didn’t help that the plane was leaving at the crack of dawn from an airfield in Sintra – a resort town in the foothills of the mountains just outside of Lisbon – so it seemed pointless to even try to get some sleep as Alexandre was sending a driver to collect me at 4 a.m.

As I paced up and down my hotel room, I veered between excitement at flying for the very first time and fear of encountering the Luftwaffe – if not in the air then during one of their many bombing raids once I’d arrived in London. And on top of all that, I also had the issue of what to do with ‘That Pesky Diamond’ while I was away. I decided that taking it with me would be way too risky, so I hid it in a pot of cold cream, which I hid inside a glove, inside a hatbox, inside my wardrobe.

Thankfully, my driver was a man of few words, which suited me just fine as I was way too nervous to hold any kind of conversation. I sat snug inside my fur jacket on the back seat, gazing out of the window as we wove our way along the narrow hill roads. As the pre-dawn sky lightened from black to darkest blue, I could see the silhouettes of Sintra’s grand villas and palaces on the horizon, like something out of a fairy tale. Oh, Mama, if you could see me now , I thought with a sigh. I can, my darling , I thought I heard her whisper back, although it could have been the breeze coming in the car window.

We arrived at the airfield, and after fetching my case from the trunk of the car, the driver grunted goodbye and a member of airport staff bustled me over to a camouflaged plane waiting by the runway. I tried not to think about the German plane parked just a few yards away. Although it was now operated by BOAC, Alexandre had explained to me that the plane I’d be taking had originally belonged to the Dutch airline KLM and had been flown to Britain before the German occupation of the Netherlands.

As I was shown up the steps and into the cabin, I saw a sign on the inside wall saying ‘KLM – Still Flying’, which was unexpectedly inspiring. There were about fourteen seats in total and the windows of the plane had all been covered with black cloth. I noticed some men sitting hunched over in the back seats, some of them sporting bandaged limbs or heads. As I took my seat in front, I overheard one of them talking quietly and realised that they were British, and although they were in civilian clothes I realised that, due to their injuries, they had to be soldiers – soldiers who had escaped the Nazis. I hugged myself to suppress a shiver.

Before we took off, the co-pilot, a Dutch man, addressed us all quietly, explaining that in order to avoid enemy aircraft, we would have to take a longer route to Britain, via the Bay of Biscay and, due to it being too dangerous to land anywhere near to London, we’d be going to a place called Whitchurch near a city called Bristol, in the west of England. I thought again of the German plane parked nearby and what Alexandre had said about the Luftwaffe, and I shivered again. The war was starting to feel ever closer and ever more real by the second.

When we finally touched down at Whitchurch airfield, I felt a rush of anxiety. Alexandre had assured me that one of his music business contacts would be there to meet me, but what if they didn’t show up? What would I do? I instantly scolded myself for being so pathetic. I would find the nearest train station and make my own way to London, that’s what.

I stepped out of the plane and into a decidedly gloomy morning. The sky was heavy with grey clouds, pressing down on the surrounding fields. Not to worry, I reassured myself. The world would be a very boring place with relentless sunshine. Variety was the spice of life, and besides, weren’t the Brits always moaning about the weather as they twirled their umbrellas? I was lucky to be getting the authentic British experience.

As my head buzzed with forced positive thoughts, I heard someone calling my name and saw a young woman in a tweed suit, with cheeks as rosy and plump as a pair of apples, waving at me.

‘Miss Castello!’ she called again, hurrying over.

‘Hello!’

‘Hello!’ She looked at a scrap of paper in her hand. ‘I’m Mary; I work for your record label here. Welcome to England,’ she said in faltering Portuguese.

‘Thank you very much, but don’t worry, I speak English.’

‘Oh you do – oh thank goodness!’ She gave me a sheepish grin. ‘I’d been practising really hard, but languages are definitely not my strongest suit.’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘OK, let’s get to the station. I have a taxi waiting.’

She led me across the tarmac and into a small building, where a balding man was waiting. As soon as he saw me, his eyes seemed to pop out of their head.

‘Good – good morning!’ he stammered, backing away almost reverentially.

‘Good morning,’ I replied, shooting Mary a bemused look.

‘He’s clearly a fan,’ she whispered as the man took my trunk and led us outside to a car.

In all the drama of the flight, I’d forgotten that I was coming somewhere I was already well known. It was quite a surreal realisation.

‘Please, allow me,’ he said, opening the back passenger door for me with a flourish.

‘Why, thank you,’ I replied, rather enjoying myself. It felt a little like being in a British film, and I had to be careful not to slip into my hammy British accent.

After a relatively short car journey, which I spent face pressed to the window, drinking in my first sights of Britain, we arrived in Bristol and pulled up outside the station. After Mary had paid the driver and he’d bid me a fond farewell, we made our way inside.

‘I’m really glad you’re here,’ I said to her as she fished around in her bag and produced two train tickets. ‘I don’t think I’d have ever found this place on my own. I haven’t seen a single road sign.’

She grinned. ‘That’s to confuse the Germans.’

I frowned at her. ‘Now you’ve confused me too. What do you mean?’

She laughed. ‘In case they invade. We’ve taken all of the road and station signs down so they won’t know where they’re going.’

I laughed at the thought of hundreds of German soldiers all scratching their heads as they stumbled around the British countryside. But then the gravity of what she’d said hit me.

‘You don’t think they will invade, do you?’

‘I hope not, but I can’t help thinking it’s only a matter of time.’ She gave me a grateful smile. ‘That’s why it’s so wonderful of you to come now. Your fans here are going to love you even more for it. It’s such a brave thing to do.’

‘Oh, it’ll take more than Hitler to scare me off,’ I quipped, but my skin erupted in a clammy sweat. What if the Germans invaded while I was here? What if I wasn’t able to return to Portugal? The dark grey clouds seemed to press down even lower, and the air felt too cold and damp to breathe. Thankfully, at that moment there was a piercing whistle and a train came chugging down the track towards us.

‘All aboard!’ Mary cried gaily as it came creaking and hissing to a stop beside us.

The door closest to us opened and a guard leaped down onto the platform.

‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said to Mary before turning to me. ‘Good morning, M—’ He broke off mid-sentence, frowning. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘No, I’m sure you don’t!’ Mary exclaimed before bustling me onto the carriage. ‘Don’t worry,’ she muttered as we made our way along the narrow corridor. ‘I booked us our own compartment, so hopefully you won’t be bothered for the rest of the journey.’

‘Oh, it’s no bother,’ I replied. The truth was, I was really touched that the Brits had taken me to their hearts at a time when so much was at stake. It was humbling, and it made me want to do anything I could to repay their kindness.

I thought of the sheet music that Emilio had given me the night before, now tucked inside my case. Whatever had been coded into the music had been extremely well hidden as I’d tried my hardest to find it but hadn’t been able to. I just hoped it would help the mysterious Trafalgar person it was bound for.

As the train chugged its way through the British countryside, Mary talked me through my itinerary for the next few days.

‘Your show is on Saturday at Queen’s Hall, and you’re having dinner at the Savoy tonight with Bertrand Montague, the owner of your record label and my boss, and?—’

‘Wait a second, do you mean the Savoy?’’ I stared at her in surprise.

‘Yes, of course – that’s where you’ll be staying. And hopefully you’ll get a chance to do some sightseeing too. Although I’m afraid some of the London sights are looking a little the worse for wear thanks to Jerry and their blasted bombs.’ Mary’s plummy accent made her sound like a Pathé newsreader.

I nodded gravely. ‘Has it been as bad as they say in the papers?’

‘Oh yes, they bombed us every night for fifteen nights at the start of the Blitz,’ she said wearily.

The thought of Lisbon being bombed for fifteen nights straight was too enormous and horrifying to comprehend. How had the British been able to live through this? ‘And now?’

‘Most nights – unless there’s no moon or it’s foggy.’

‘Why unless there’s no moon?’

‘The bombers can’t see their targets as well in the total darkness. On a clear night with a full moon, it’s terrible. We’ve come to expect a real drubbing.’

My heart sank as I thought of the moon I’d seen on my way to the airport that morning. It had been pretty fat, but was it waxing or waning?

‘But you mustn’t worry,’ Mary said, as if reading my mind. ‘The Savoy has a wonderful bomb shelter. It even has its own dance floor!’

I tried to imagine a bomb shelter with a dance floor but drew a blank. The pictures in the Daily Mail all showed Londoners huddled together on the platforms of underground stations, or in weird little corrugated metal shelters, crammed together like sardines in a tin.

I sat back in my seat and wiped some of the condensation from the window so I could look out. As I gazed at the leaden sky and barren fields, I felt as if I’d travelled to another world.