The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  The only thing that threatened to spoil the atmosphere was when she caught sight of Felix as he came back from behind the curtain and took his place at the piano. He shuffled his music and appeared to be absorbed in it, but Sylvie caught him looking towards the dancefloor with a frown on his face. Let him watch, she thought, twirling in Dieter’s arms with a laugh. She was doing nothing wrong.

  When the song came to an end, Céline patted Tall Valter on the arm and made her way to the stage with a backward glance over her shoulder at him. She raised her eyebrows at Felix and tossed her head disdainfully. Sylvie winced. Most likely Felix’s ire had been directed at that couple, not at her and Dieter.

  ‘One more dance?’ Dieter asked hopefully.

  Céline began to sing in her sultry tones.

  ‘J’attendrai’.

  A slow and dreamy number.

  ‘One dance. Then I have to go get changed into my next costume.’

  Sylvie rested her arm on top of Dieter’s and took his hand. To dance as they had been would not fit the rhythm or the mood. This needed something more intimate; a slow foxtrot. He put his other hand around her waist, drawing her a little closer as he led her around the floor, weaving among the couples who remained.

  Sylvie stared at Dieter as they danced. His hair was blonde, almost white, but it was his eyelashes that fascinated her. They were the same colour as his hair, and against his tanned complexion and icy-blue eyes they almost disappeared.

  Ice-blue eyes. Such a clichéd way of describing them, as if he was a character in a cheap paperback thriller, but it was all Sylvie could think of. She kept looking back into them as they danced. It surprised her at how much she was drawn to him. Dieter was perfection personified. Handsome and tall. The sort of man the Führer would have admired.

  Sylvie turned cold. Exactly the sort of man who had conquered France. Even as beguiling as she found him, she must not allow herself to forget that. As soon as the last notes of the song ended, she unwound herself and stepped back.

  ‘Thank you. Now I really must go and get changed.’

  ‘I must not let you be late.’

  ‘Are you going to stay and watch for the rest of the night?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dieter said. ‘I am off duty tomorrow afternoon. Would you please join me for another walk and for some lunch? I have not yet been to the botanic garden and I would like to. I know a good restaurant that opens its doors at midday.’

  Sylvie hesitated. She had no idea what missions Marcel would give her when she met him the following day and could end up with plans that she could not cancel in favour of lunch. Dieter took her hesitation as reluctance.

  ‘Or another day,’ he said. He looked crestfallen. ‘Unless you do not wish to.’

  She couldn’t think of a reason not to that wouldn’t seem unfriendly. What harm could it do? If she was given an unavoidable task, or Marcel decided the engagement was a bad idea, she could send a message and plead illness.

  ‘I do wish to but I have to go shopping tomorrow morning and it can take such a long time to queue in every shop.’

  He waved his hands as if dismissing her worries. ‘Then I could request a table for one o’clock.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be perfect. Thank you, I would like that,’ Sylvie replied. ‘Shall I meet you here or outside the chateau?’

  ‘The chateau?’ Dieter frowned and glanced towards the two Valters. Nikki slipped in through the door and joined them. He adjusted his trousers and leered as he spoke to the other men. Had he been to the brothel down the street? Sylvie’s stomach heaved as she imagined the poor woman forced to suffer Nikki using her to satisfy himself. The only consolation was that, given how long he had been gone, it must have been over for her quickly. Nikki flashed Sylvie and Dieter a look of hostility.

  ‘I think the restaurant will be better,’ Dieter said. ‘Do you know the Theatre Graslin? It is a short walk to the restaurant from there. Come straight to the restaurant, La Cigale, and I will be waiting for you.’

  ‘Then until tomorrow,’ Sylvie said.

  Dieter kissed her hand. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  She hurried backstage to change. She had her first chance to do something really useful rather than traipsing about on Felix’s damned errands, and she had gained a lunch engagement with a handsome young man in the bargain. It had been such a long time since anyone had tried to court her; despite knowing she was only doing it for information, she had to admit she was a little excited at the prospect.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Leeds, England

  1942

  ‘You’re the new girl, aren’t you?’

  The young man with whom Sylvie had almost collided as she left the filing room was dressed in a smart three-piece suit. Sylvie recognised him as Mr Radcliffe, the most junior of the partners in the solicitor’s Key, Fry, Fforde & Radcliffe. She had briefly encountered Mr Fforde when he had popped in to her interview with Mr Fry, and she had been offered a post in the probate department, which Mr Fry led. Mr Radcliffe took charge of conveyancing.

  ‘I started last month, sir,’ Sylvie replied. ‘Miss Crichton. Sylvia.’

  She’d lived with that name long enough to get used to it, but it still rankled. Her school certificates were in that name, as was her bachelor’s degree from the University of Leeds.

  ‘Call me Mr Radcliffe,’ he said, bestowing a gracious smile on her. ‘Sir sounds awfully formal. I might like to end up in the House of Lords one day, but not quite yet.’

  He had an easy manner about him and Sylvie found it easy to provide the laugh which he was obviously waiting for. She adjusted the bundle of files in her arms, being careful not to disorder them. Mrs Kent, her supervisor, had a sharp tongue, and on Sylvie’s first day, she had impressed on Sylvie her expectations of punctuality, personal neatness and professional rigour. A pile of files that was not neatly lined up so all the edges were in perfect unison would receive a sharp reminder about standards.

  ‘You’re in Old Kent Road’s department, aren’t you?’ Mr Radcliffe said. ‘I can always tell from the way her girls hold their folders. I’m surprised she doesn’t pass offenders over to Fforde in the criminal department for prosecution.’

  Sylvie frowned. She was fairly certain that the partners shouldn’t be sharing nicknames with the clerks like that. It was impertinent to Mrs Kent, who had been with the firm since Mr Fforde joined in 1926 and was in her late fifties. She deserved more respect from her employer, especially as he was ten or more years her junior.

  ‘Oh, don’t pull that disapproving face and make me feel like a naughty schoolboy,’ Mr Radcliffe said. ‘Everyone loves Miss K, and she knows we couldn’t do without her. She knows I’m teasing when I call her that. Good to see some sense of loyalty though. I bet you were head girl at your school, weren’t you?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Sylvie retorted. ‘I spent half my first year repeating my prep because my handwriting was so bad and the next half being told to stop dreaming and start marking the ball in hockey!’

  It was Mr Radcliffe’s turn to laugh. ‘You look so prim and proper too!’

  Sylvie wriggled inwardly. Of course she looked prim, she’d chosen her work wardrobe to give that effect entirely. Gone was the Sylvie who had dreamed of chiffon and feathers, replaced by tweed skirts and crisp cotton blouses.

  ‘I should take Mrs Kent the files,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Radcliffe nodded and she passed around him. The corridor was narrow and she couldn’t help but brush up against his sleeve. She supposed he could have backed up against the wall, but he didn’t. She smiled up at him shyly before walking away. As she reached the door to the office where she worked, he called after her.

  ‘Oh, Miss Crichton?’

  She looked back. ‘Yes, Mr Radcliffe?’

  ‘I thought I’d take my sandwiches to sit and look at the river this lunchtime. If Old Kent Road lets you out, would you care to join me? I can answer any of the questions about the firm that you might want
answering.’

  Sylvie felt a blush starting to creep around her neck. If she understood correctly, he was asking her out. She looked at him standing there, waiting for an answer. He was unremarkable to look at, but his eyes crinkled attractively and he had a charming smile. He was a good ten years older than she was, but as her mother had told her, the age didn’t matter if there was a feeling, and there definitely was a feeling stirring inside her.

  ‘I think I’d like that,’ she answered.

  ‘Good. Tell Mrs Kent I’m plundering her department and that you’ll be an hour.’ He walked off along the corridor, hands in his pockets and whistling.

  Sylvie watched him turn the corner. She wasn’t sure what plundering involved, but she was looking forward to finding out. Mrs Kent received the message with an expression of displeasure and Sylvie almost decided against meeting Mr Radcliffe, but there was enough of Angelique left in her to give her the courage to ignore the disapproval and the inevitable gossip that would follow.

  Sandwiches in the park soon evolved into lunch in a corner café. Then into lunch in a nicer establishment, more suited to where a junior solicitor might take a woman he was trying to impress. Mr Radcliffe became Dennis and tentatively kissed Sylvie as he walked her back to the office. Lunches turned into dinners, and dinners to dances at the 101 Club. The Blitz, that awful campaign of bombing, had seemingly ended and spirits were high.

  On their fifth dinner date, Dennis admitted he was married but unhappily and was estranged from his wife. While he lived in the flat in Leeds, his Catholic wife had returned to her parents in High Wycombe. In the argument that followed, Sylvie almost broke off the affair, but Dennis begged her to meet him for dinner once more so he could explain.

  ‘Our marriage was a mistake, Sylvia darling,’ he swore, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘We were too young. Edna won’t divorce me because of her faith, but we live separate lives. As soon as I’m able, I shall begin the proceedings myself and then I’ll be free to marry. I want to be with you, Sylvia.’

  Sylvie was in love. Completely, deliriously and wonderfully in love for the first time. The young men she had dallied with at university meant nothing. The stagehands and musicians in France were a distant memory. The expression of remorse on Dennis’s face swayed her. The eyes that threatened to brim with tears before he blinked them away sealed the deal.

  ‘I want to be with you too,’ she said.

  As Sylvie danced in Dennis’s arms at the 101 Club while the band played swing, he pulled her close and murmured against her neck.

  ‘Why don’t you come home with me tonight?’

  ‘You keep asking me and I keep saying no,’ she murmured. ‘What makes you think I’ll change my mind tonight?’

  ‘Because now you know the truth and you forgave me.’ He drew her closer so she could rest her head against his shoulder. ‘We can’t have a wedding yet, but we can make that vow to each other privately.’

  He swung her round, and she did a graceful twirl followed by a slide. Dennis caught up with her and nuzzled her from behind. He manoeuvred her round so they were both facing the band and the row of girls dancing on the stage.

  ‘You dance so well. You could easily be a professional. You’ve got the sort of body that’s made for moving.’

  Sylvie looked longingly at the dancing girls.

  ‘I could have been, in another life,’ she said, raising her voice over the music.

  Dennis laughed and whisked her into another smooth slide across the dancefloor. Over his shoulder, Sylvie kept her eyes on the women in their silk and sparkles. What wouldn’t she give to be up there with them?

  What would she give? Would she exchange her good job and a comfortable room at the boarding house that Maud’s friend ran to be back onstage? She shouldn’t want to, but the music caught her and moved her, lifting her like a wave.

  She wanted that exhilaration to continue, needed something to make her feel that elation. When the band finished their final number and Dennis had collected her coat, she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly.

  ‘I’ll come home with you tonight,’ she said.

  His face lit up, and he drew her into a deeper, longer kiss, enfolding her inside his Mackintosh. Sylvie was shivering with excitement by the time they reached Dennis’s flat in a smart mews building that had escaped the bombing, though the houses at the end of the road had not been so lucky.

  She didn’t have time to investigate the flat as he led her by the hand straight through into a bedroom. He didn’t even bother to turn on the light and they undressed each other in darkness, feverishly kissing all the while. Dennis pulled her down onto the bed and straddled her.

  ‘I don’t know if you know what to expect,’ he murmured, as he twined his fingers in the strap of her brassiere and began to ease it down over her shoulder.

  Sylvie had never told him she wasn’t a virgin, but then she had never told him that she was either. He just assumed it. She considered correcting him but, well, some men preferred to think that they were a woman’s first, and it did not really matter to her. She’d lost her virginity to an arts undergraduate called Oliver on the night war was declared. She had no idea what had happened to Oliver since, and he didn’t really matter.

  She put her arms around Dennis, drawing him down closer to whisper in his ear.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll teach me everything I need to learn.’

  Afterwards they lay in the dark, warm beneath the blankets. Sylvie felt she fitted into the crook of his arm as if she had been made for it.

  ‘Conveyancing is so damned dull,’ Dennis said. ‘No one wants to buy a house when they’re worried the Luftwaffe might flatten it at any moment. I might go seek my fortune in one of the government departments rather than hang around Leeds forever. You could come with me and we can set up together.’

  It would be good to do something more productive for the war effort. Of course, life had to go on, but when Sylvie saw the women in WREN or WAAF uniforms heading to their shifts, she did feel that she could be doing more. Moving to London would provide better opportunities.

  Then Sylvie remembered the countless men her mother had loved and lived with, and though it was tempting, that would be the end of promises of marriage. She wasn’t that naïve. Besides, her father and Maud would never permit her to do something so scandalous; she had tried too hard to become the respectable English lady they wanted her to be.

  ‘We could do that…’ Sylvie said. She leaned over him and planted a kiss on his lips, then smiled in the darkness. ‘…when you’re free to marry. The second Mrs Dennis Radcliffe might move to London with you, but Sylvia Crichton is staying right here.’

  Nantes, France

  1944

  Sylvie began to change, slipping out of the sequin-covered short green skirt and cropped top. The first costume she had worn was playful, but the second set of dances called for a slinkier gown of black silk and lace with a red silk scarf. It reminded her of the clothes The Firefly Girls had worn as the Twenties changed into the Thirties, although hers was shorter and more revealing with thin straps edged with rows of beads.

  She reached her hands around the back, struggling slightly to do up the top button that was in the middle of her shoulder blades. The door opened, allowing a brief burst of laughter and music to blast through, then closed behind her.

  ‘Can you do this for me, please? I can never reach the top button.’

  She glanced into the mirror, but instead of one of the girls, Felix stood there.

  ‘Can’t you knock? I could have been naked,’ she exclaimed. He averted his eyes – a touch belatedly, in Sylvie’s opinion. ‘I’m not, so you don’t have to look at the floor. What do you want? Shouldn’t you be onstage with Céline?’

  ‘I can take a minute.’ He leaned against the wall beside the door. ‘After seeing the way you were dancing, I assume your honour is intact and your composure is fine, but I came to ask how you were after being insulted. He
re let me do that for you,’ he said, noticing she had started to struggle with her buttons again.

  ‘There is no need,’ Sylvie said. ‘I don’t need your help.’

  ‘Always take help if it is offered freely,’ Felix said.

  ‘Is that what you were doing when you intervened?’ Sylvie asked. The latent anxiety that had been hovering in her breast ever since Felix had confronted Nikki flared again. ‘That was so stupid! Didn’t you think what could have happened if you spoke like that to a German officer?’

  Felix’s eyes flashed. ‘I did think,’ he said. ‘My initial instinct was to punch him and throw him out of the club.’

  ‘He would have had you arrested,’ Sylvie exclaimed in horror. ‘You might have been executed!’ She had visions of Felix being manhandled out in handcuffs, dragged into the depths of the chateau, never to be seen again.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t do it, but I wasn’t about to stand by and listen to that sort of talk,’ Felix said. He glared at the room in general. ‘Did you understand what the Unteroffizier said about you?’

  ‘Some of it,’ Sylvie admitted. ‘An insult like that was hardly enough to risk getting yourself imprisoned or executed for, especially when you disapprove of what I’ve been asked to do and most likely agree with his estimation of me.’

  ‘I don’t agree with him!’

  ‘Well, that comes as a surprise to me!’ Sylvie muttered.

  Felix stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared intently at the floor.

  ‘How come you speak such good German?’ Sylvie asked.