by Nancy Revell
‘Punishment for what?’ she repeated. She had to know before she left.
‘For being so stupid,’ Henrietta said, her lips pursed. ‘I should have known. Should have known what he was doing. But I was stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’
Helen knew her grandmother was talking about her grandfather; it was a subject they tended not to touch upon. Seeing how upset Henrietta was becoming, she took her hand and could feel it shaking.
‘You’re not stupid, Grandmama. Don’t get upset.’ She sucked back her anger. ‘It’s him that needs punishing.’
The bell rang again.
Helen stood up. She could have cried. But she didn’t. Instead, she got up and put her arms around her grandmother and hugged her tightly.
Dr Parker sat on the wooden bench outside the asylum. It was late and dark. He had just dropped off one of his patients – a wounded soldier whom he believed to be suffering from something akin to shell shock. The poor soul had not slept since he came in, but worse still, he had not said a single word. Claire had agreed he was suffering from what was now being referred to as ‘post-concussional syndrome’.
Claire had told John that she’d meet him for a walk in the grounds once she’d got her new patient settled in and John had told her not to worry how long she was. He’d finished his shift and was happy to sit outside and enjoy the peace and quiet. It had been a frantic day.
Watching Claire as she dealt with the young army private, he had been filled with admiration. She was such an amazing woman – so empathetic and kind. And they gelled together so well. She was even as passionate about improving prosthetics as he was – well, almost. And there was no doubting that the physical attraction was there.
And yet still Helen was not far from his thoughts. He’d seen her earlier on this evening for their usual catch-up before her visit with Henrietta and as always the time had flown and he’d been left with the feeling that they hadn’t had long enough. Saying farewell to Helen always felt such a wrench. They hadn’t mentioned the conversation they’d had about love and marriage since the day of Pearl’s wedding almost two months ago, but it was still playing heavily on his mind. Helen had obviously believed he was of the opinion that a woman should walk down the aisle in white, which had got him thinking: if Helen had harboured feelings for him in the past, she would never have allowed herself to make him aware of how she felt, believing he would not want to court a woman who was ‘sullied’, to quote that awful mother of hers. Did Helen have feelings for him that weren’t purely platonic? Or was he simply reading far too much into the situation and it was his way of allowing himself to hang on to his delusion that Helen might reciprocate his feelings?
One thing was clear: he needed to know either way before he asked for Claire’s hand in marriage. It was the only way forward. The only way to move on with his life. He just had to pick the right time. And it had to be soon.
Gloria felt the brush of lips on hers and opened her eyes to see Jack smiling down at her.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘We had a few problems at the yard to deal with.’
Gloria pushed herself up from the settee. The last thing she remembered was listening to the news on the BBC Home Service.
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Gloria said.
‘There was an accident at the yard.’ Seeing the look on Gloria’s face, he quickly added, ‘Not fatal – thank God.’
‘What happened?’ Gloria sat up.
‘One of the platers’ helpers sliced the tip of his thumb clean off.’
Gloria grimaced. During her time at the yard she had seen a surprising number of similar accidents.
‘Is he all right?’
‘There was a lot of blood, but he’ll live. One of the men took him to the Royal. I’m guessing stitches and a week or so off work. I’ll hear tomorrow how he’s got on.’
‘Let me make a nice cuppa.’ Gloria started to get up.
‘No, stay there, I’ll get it. I’ll just pop my head in and say goodnight to cheeky chops. She been all right?’
‘She’s been a dream,’ Gloria said, ‘but then it is Friday, which is spoil-Hope-rotten night.’
Jack smiled as he looked down to see a solitary toffee in the middle of the table beside a piece of paper with a scrawl of orange crayon on it, which he guessed indicated the lone offering was his.
‘Although her fairy godmother didn’t stop this evening.’ Gloria raised her eyebrows.
‘Really?’ Jack asked, popping the toffee in his mouth.
‘She says she’s not going to be a buffer between me and Bobby any more.’
‘Good for her,’ he said through a mouthful of toffee. ‘’Bout time you two sorted yourselves out.’
‘I know, yer right,’ said Gloria. She knew she should be more proactive and force the issue with Bobby to clear the air, but she kept finding excuses not to.
After checking on Hope, who was fast asleep, Jack came back into the living area to find Gloria had gone into the kitchen to make the tea. He went in, put his arms around her and kissed her.
‘Yer do know the way to a man’s heart.’ He kissed her again and smiled.
‘Well, yer easily pleased if a simple cuppa does the trick,’ Gloria laughed.
They took their cups and saucers and settled back in the lounge on the sofa.
‘There was also another reason I was late back,’ Jack said, taking a sup of his tea.
Gloria eyed him.
‘I rang Angus and asked to speak to Miriam,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Gloria was surprised. She knew Jack was getting irritated by the lack of any kind of communication from his wife – but she hadn’t thought he’d ring her. He could barely say her name, never mind speak to her in person.
‘I’ve waited long enough for this bloody divorce to come through.’
‘And did yer speak to her? Or should I say, would she speak to you?’
Jack let out a sigh. ‘No, I didn’t. Apparently, she’s having an extended break at some kind of health spa and they’re not sure when she’s due back.’
‘And do you think that was the truth?’ Gloria asked. ‘Do they have health spas in Scotland? And if they do, would they be open? In the middle of a world war?’
Jack put his cup and saucer down on the coffee table and looked at the woman he couldn’t wait to make his wife.
‘Now you’ve put it like that, I’m not sure.’ He eyed Gloria. ‘You are one suspicious woman.’
‘Only when it comes to Miriam,’ she said. ‘I just don’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Monday 5 June
Peter was sitting at the kitchen table with his radio operator and courier, as well as three soldiers from the French Resistance. They were all sipping coffee, buoyed up at having just heard that Rome had fallen to the Allies. Their talk had turned to the new provisional French government, and the daily bombings of gun batteries now taking place along the Normandy coastline and the Cherbourg peninsula. It was clear the invasion was imminent.
Perhaps because of this, Peter had been feeling particularly reflective, thinking back to his initial training at Wanborough. He’d really had no idea when Toby had recruited him to work for the SOE that his life would change so completely. Looking back at that time was like viewing another life. Another existence. Back then, he’d believed his work as a detective sergeant for the Borough Police – his dealings with a vast array of shady characters, ruthless career criminals and those who abused others for their own satisfaction – had taught him just about all there was to know about life. That and the slow death of his first wife, of course. He’d thought he’d experienced for himself how cruel life could be. Nothing, though, could have prepared him for what he had seen since he’d been dropped behind enemy lines.
He hoped that the lives of those he knew from both the SOE and the French Resistance, with whom he and his unit had worked so closely, had not been sacrificed in vain, and that they could
one day be hailed as the heroes and heroines they truly were. And he hoped if his own life were also given over to the cause, its loss would be compensated for by victory.
Seeing that it was just a few minutes before eight thirty, Peter leant over and switched on the wireless. The room immediately fell silent as they waited to hear the dulcet tones of Franck Bauer, one of the recognisable voices of the London-based radio station that broadcast in French to Nazi-occupied France. Operated by the Free French, its aim was to counter German propaganda broadcasts and send coded messages.
One of Peter’s men, Jacques, stood up and went over to the window, moving the wooden shutters slightly to check for any unwanted visitors. It was illegal to listen to Radio Londres – anyone caught would be punished with a fine and a prison sentence or sent to a concentration camp. The populace had become very wary of la Milice, the ruthless Vichy French militia who were known for snooping at doors to catch people tuning into broadcasts. The kitchen was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. A sense of expectation hung heavy in the air. Four days earlier, they had listened to the opening lines of Paul Verlaine’s poem ‘Chanson d’automne’: ‘Les sanglots longs/ Des violons/ De l’automne’ – ‘The long sobs/ Of violins/ Of autumn’. The melodic, undulating words had been read out to listeners not for literary appreciation, but rather to tell the agents and the French Resistance that the invasion of Europe was to start within the fortnight. The next set of lines would be read out within forty-eight hours of the start of what the French were calling ‘Jour J’.
Peter looked around the table. All eyes were on the radio, straining to catch every word through the crackling interference. The broadcast started as it did every evening with the opening four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, sounding out V for victory in Morse code, followed by ‘Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français.’ ‘This is London! The French speaking to the French.’
One of the Resistance fighters, a handsome young man called Louis with a mop of thick blond hair, stood up. His chair scraped back on the worn flagstones just as the words ‘Blessent mon cœur/ D’une langueur/ Monotone’ – ‘Wound my heart with a monotonous languor’ – fought their way through the static. On hearing the second half of the melancholic poem’s opening stanza, the men turned to look at each other. This was their call to action.
‘C’est l’heure,’ said Peter, standing up and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. The time had come to put into action their planned sabotage operations, the aim of which was to impair the Germans’ ability to send reinforcements. Their first task was to cut through one of the main railway tracks, then they were to disrupt telephone and power lines covering part of the north-west coast. Afterwards, they were to head to a small crossroads town called Sainte-Mère-Église. Peter’s circuit knew that it was the Allies’ intention to free the town from Nazi occupation due to its geographical importance. Having control of it would allow a clear thoroughfare for troops going from north to south.
Peter grabbed his heavy haversack which had been placed by the front door.
‘Allons-y.’
Toby was sitting at his desk in his office at RAF Harrington, reading a copy of a letter from General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force. That evening, 175,000 copies of the letter had been distributed to all those men getting ready to take back Europe from the deathly grip of a madman.
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.
Toby sighed. This much was true and had been well proven.
But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940–41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.
Toby sat back. They were stirring words. The men he knew were all, without a shadow of a doubt, courageous, devoted and skilled. He wished he could show this letter to Peter and the rest of the agents fighting behind enemy lines. It would give them a boost – remind them that they were not alone, that they might have to fight in isolation from the rest of their brothers-in-arms, but they were part of a team, part of the Allied forces. But most of all, he wanted them to know that they were all rooting – as well as praying – for them.
Toby looked at his watch and got up from his chair. It was time to see the operational group, a team of around thirty men who were about to board Douglas C-47 Dakotas that would land in occupied territory and provide reinforcements for SOE circuits and Resistance groups. The Dakotas would then bring back shot-down aircrew, wounded operatives and Resistance fighters for debriefing in London.
The bodies of those who had died for their country, though, would have to remain on the other side of the Channel.
Just before midnight a complex system called ‘Movement Control’ was activated to ensure that those about to go into battle, as well as the tanks and trucks that were to go with them, left on schedule from twenty designated departure points. Some men had been on board their vessels for the past week, waiting for the signal to depart.
Minesweepers began clearing lanes while the ships gathered at a meeting point, nicknamed ‘Piccadilly Circus’, south-east of the Isle of Wight, where they assembled into convoys to cross the Channel.
HMS Opportune started patrolling the eastern stretches of the English Channel, guarding against a German naval attack.
Meanwhile, a thousand bombers left to attack the coastal defences. Five thousand tons of bombs were expected to be dropped on German gun batteries on the Normandy coast. They were followed by 1,200 aircraft transporting three airborne divisions to their drop zones behind enemy lines.
At 05:45, a preliminary naval bombardment began from five battleships, twenty cruisers, sixty-five destroyers and two monitors.
At around 06:30, infantry arrived on the beaches, some 132,000 men having been transported by sea and a further 24,000 by air.
D-Day, the largest amphibious military operation in history, had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tuesday 6 June
‘We’ve just got a late edition!’ Dorothy pushed her way through the busy pub with Angie in tow.
‘Watch yerself!’ one of the caulkers shouted over his shoulder as Dorothy caused him to spill some of his pint when she accidently nudged him.
‘Careful, Dor!’ Angie hissed. ‘We’ll get lynched if yer bash into anyone else.’
They reached the table the rest of the women had commandeered. They had headed straight to the Admiral after the end of their shift while Dorothy and Angie had gone to get a newspaper. At lunchtime, word had started to spread through the yard and the canteen that British and American forces had landed on five beaches along the north-west coast of France. Muriel told them she’d heard on the wireless she kept in the kitchen that troops had landed on the Normandy coast and that it was official – the opening of a second front against Nazi Germany had finally happened.
‘Blimey!’ Angie said when they reached the women. ‘We nearly had a s
crap over the last copy.’
The women chuckled on seeing Angie’s and Dorothy’s serious faces.
Hannah shuffled her stool nearer to Martha and patted the two free ones next to her.
Angie flumped down, followed by Dorothy.
Gloria pushed their drinks in front of them.
‘Thanks, Glor,’ Angie said, taking a sip of her port and lemon.
Dorothy looked around at the women and raised her glass.
‘To Peter!’
They all looked at Rosie.
‘And to Gordon!’ Martha said.
Everyone’s attention went to Gloria.
‘And to Tommy!’ Hannah said.
They all smiled at Polly.
There was a mass clinking of glasses.
‘And,’ Angie said, looking at Hannah, ‘to getting yer mam ’n dad back.’
The women looked at Hannah, whose smile was sad. She hadn’t talked much about her parents of late, which they thought might be because of the increasing number of reports making it into the news of the sickening atrocities being committed at Auschwitz and other Nazi death camps.
Dorothy shook out the newspaper she was holding and spread it out in front of her. She was not the only shipyard worker reading a paper. The pub was full of workers doing likewise. It was clear the whole town felt part of what was presently happening on the other side of the Channel. Not surprisingly – they had, after all, built the vessels that had taken troops and tanks to the starting line of what everyone hoped would mark the beginning of the end.
Dorothy took a sip of her drink and then cleared her throat.
‘“Deliverance day has dawned. D-Day begins with the landing of 155,000 Allied troops on the beaches of Normandy, France.”’ She read down. ‘“Allied soldiers break through the Atlantic Wall.”’
‘What exactly is the Atlantic Wall?’ Martha asked.
‘Hitler built coastal defences all the way from Norway, along the Belgian and French coastlines to the Spanish border,’ Hannah explained.
