The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Not even to know whether you’re better or worse?’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ he said, grinning and stroking the finger down her neck.

  ‘I think it is better not to name things and just enjoy them,’ she said.

  ‘I can agree to that.’ Felix drew her close, wrapping his arms and legs around her, bare flesh against bare flesh.

  ‘You have quite an effect on me, Sylvie.’

  She looked down between them, then up again and batted her eyelashes coquettishly.

  ‘So I see.’

  Felix grinned wickedly. ‘I thought we agreed we were too tired for any more of … whatever we’re doing.’

  ‘We did, but you seem to be awake again, and we can change our minds.’

  He laughed and swept her into his arms, crossing the room to the bed in two great strides and tumbling down on top of the sheets.

  ‘It’s lucky for us the club doesn’t open until this evening,’ he said as he wriggled himself into the cocoon of sheets Sylvie was wrapped in. ‘We can stay awake or sleep as long as we like now.’

  For today at least, Sylvie thought. She had promised to meet Dieter tomorrow, although now was definitely not the time to mention that to Felix. The future didn’t matter. The past and Dennis didn’t matter. She kissed Felix, losing herself in the pleasure of his lips and pushing thoughts of everything and everyone else from her mind.

  Leeds, England

  1943

  Sylvie visited Dennis the day after her father’s funeral in Scarborough. She travelled back to Leeds in the mourning clothes she had borrowed from one of the typists at Key, Fry, Fforde & Radcliffe on the fateful day when the telegram arrived informing her of Arthur Crichton’s death from a heart attack.

  Dennis’s idea of being sympathetic to Sylvie’s loss was by not immediately taking her to bed, but making her a soda and Tanqueray first, which they drank sitting side by side on his sofa. Sylvie secretly longed for a cup of tea or, even better, real coffee. She knew Dennis had a tin hidden away, acquired illicitly through the black market.

  Once they had finished the gin, Dennis led her to the bedroom. Even though it had only been a week since Sylvie had left for Scarborough and the funeral, Dennis’s lovemaking was frenzied. He nuzzled against her neck, sucking at her earlobe as he thrust until he was spent. Afterwards, they lay in bed, the late-August sunshine banished by the heavy blackout curtains he had drawn as soon as they entered the bedroom.

  ‘Was it dreadful, Sylvia darling?’ he asked.

  ‘Funerals are always dreadful.’

  ‘Did you cry?’ He fondled her breast, slightly inappropriately considering the subject.

  ‘You know I don’t do that. It was less awful than Mama’s funeral.’

  She rolled over and leaned on her elbows, tracing a fingertip over Dennis’s bare chest. She’d been visiting the flat more and more, staying for a week at a time on occasion, but had refused Dennis’s pleas, suggestions and occasional demands that she lived with him as man and wife. The flat was his, not a joint home. She was tired of borrowing drawer space and not owning more than could fit into a single room in someone else’s house.

  ‘Maud has got three refugees and is enjoying having young children around. She hinted a number of times she’d like me to take the rest of my things. I think we might do more to help the war effort than we are doing.’

  ‘I don’t see myself piloting a Spitfire! Are you planning to drive a tank?’

  Sylvie swatted him playfully on the arm. ‘Of course not, but we could both look for work in London like you said before. There must be work in offices or suchlike.’

  Dennis put his hands behind his head and gave her a strange look.

  ‘Sylvie, where is this leading?’

  He should be pleased, not silent and growing tense. Drawing a deep breath, Sylvie carried on. Maybe she wasn’t being clear enough.

  ‘I know I have been dillydallying about moving in with you but I think now might be the time. I don’t inherit much, I’m afraid – almost everything goes to Maud – but I’ll receive two hundred pounds now and a small yearly allowance. It would be a good start for married life, and, of course, when Maud dies…’

  Dennis sat up, glaring. ‘Damn it, Sylvia, we can’t get married!’

  He never raised his voice and the vehemence was shocking. Her stomach felt acidic.

  Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?

  ‘You’re never going to leave Edna, are you?’ she said. ‘She won’t divorce you and you don’t have the guts to make the first move.’

  ‘The thing is, Sylvia, wartime makes you realise what’s important.’ Dennis hung his head. ‘Edna and I owe it to one another to give it another go.’

  The full meaning of his words took a minute to sink in. Sylvie sat up too, hugging the counterpane around her knees. She’d made the decision to stay with Dennis when she knew he was married. She had imagined he would string her along with promises of marriage and had become resigned to it. Why should he force the divorce when Sylvia was content to let him eat her cake while he had his own elsewhere?

  But she had never expected this.

  ‘You’re going to reconcile with Edna?’

  He looked at her sorrowfully. ‘I have to. You only get one shot at life, and I couldn’t bear to think I had wasted mine.’

  ‘I’m a waste?’ Sylvie exclaimed. She pulled up the strap of her slip and began to climb out of bed. Dennis grabbed her hand and pulled her back towards him. He held her close, pressing against her as if he was about to start making love to her. He buried his head against her hair so she had to strain to hear his muffled words.

  ‘No, Sylvia, you’ve not been a waste. I’ve adored every moment we spent together, but I have responsibilities. There’s Edna, of course, but there is also Maximus.’

  ‘Who is Maximus?’ Sylvie asked, wriggling out of his suffocating embrace. ‘A pet dog?’

  Dennis managed to look both reproachful and shamefaced at the same time. ‘Maximus is our son.’

  ‘You have a child!’ Sylvie dragged herself free and climbed out of bed, fumbling for her clothes that lay scattered on the floor.

  Dennis sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.

  ‘I didn’t know Edna was pregnant when we parted. She didn’t tell me about Maximus until he was a year old. I’ve never even met him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you found out?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Because I love you. I hoped there was a way around it, but there isn’t.’

  Sylvie sank down onto the end of the bed. This was her life story in a twisted form. A man who did not know he had fathered a child, and a woman who he should never have been with. The difference was that, in this case, Edna had a legitimate claim on Dennis that Angelique hadn’t on Arthur. Sylvie had no claim at all.

  Her eyes blurred with tears. Ordinarily, she forced herself to keep them in, to be unemotional and controlled, but now she let them fall.

  ‘Oh heavens, Sylvia. You never cry. Don’t be sad.’

  She heard Dennis moving across the bed towards her and held up her hand to ward him off.

  ‘I’m not sad, I’m furious. You let me go to bed with you when you were planning to leave me! How could you?’

  ‘I wanted to make love to you one last time.’ He was practically whining. Pleading. She felt nothing but scorn for him, and it helped her stem the tears. She dragged her hand across her face, no doubt smearing powder and mascara with the tears she cleared. She folded her arms and stared Dennis down.

  ‘What an absolute fool I am. You wanted to make love to me again? Did you stop to consider whether I would want that?’

  ‘I’m sorry. But Sylvia, dearest, I love you.’

  She looked at him. His face was a picture of anxiety. The mouth that she had always described as sensitive was trembling weakly. She couldn’t even bring herself to despise him. It didn’t seem possible to fall out of love instantaneously, but now she had. He looked pitiful.
He was pitiful: a sad little man who made excuses and lied.

  Later, the heartache would happen, but for now she was able to be as cold and unemotional as she always was. Thank you, Arthur and Maud, for that discipline!

  ‘You have to do the right thing by Edna and Maximus,’ she said coldly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping you going back to your wife, and certainly not where there is a child involved. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like you to leave the flat for a little while. An hour should be long enough for me to gather everything and be gone before you come back.’

  His eyes grew dull with defeat. ‘I’ll go into the offices. I took the day off but there is plenty to do.’

  He began to dress. Sylvie left him to it and went into the living room. It was a Thursday. Thanks to Mrs Kent’s kindness on hearing of the funeral, she wasn’t due back at Key, Fry, Fforde & Radcliffe until Monday. Now she discovered she couldn’t bear to go back at all. Everybody would know about the end of the affair, and she would not be able to face the looks of judgement or sympathy. She felt nauseous at the thought. There was a stack of notepaper on the bureau in the corner. She poured a gin and tossed it down her throat, then wrote a few lines. When she heard Dennis leave the bedroom, she went into the hallway and held out the note.

  ‘Mr Radcliffe, please accept my resignation. I shall send a formal letter to Mr Key by the end of the week.’

  ‘Sylvia, there’s no need to do that.’

  ‘There’s every need.’ In a flash of defiance she added, ‘And my name is not Sylvia.’

  He took the letter as if he were in a dream. ‘What will you do for money? You can’t intend to live on what you get from Maud?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find something. Maybe I shall join the WRENs or WAAF. I should have been doing my part for the war effort instead of typing up letters about house sales! Even Maud has taken in her refugees, and I’ve wasted my time with you!’

  She turned her back on him and stared at the wall until she heard the front door pull shut. In actual fact, it took less than an hour to get her belongings together. Paperback books, clothes, makeup; everything that didn’t fit into her overnight case went into the rather fine suitcase that she tugged out from underneath Dennis’s bed. She’d send it back to him at some point when she had no further use for it.

  With the remaining time, she dug out Dennis’s precious supply of proper coffee and brewed a pot. She drank it all and left the dirty cup in the middle of the kitchen table. Fortified by the first decent cup of coffee she could remember in years, she redid her makeup and regarded herself in the bathroom mirror.

  Eyes bereft of emotion but no longer red from crying stared back at her. She could do without Dennis. Without any man. She locked the front door behind her, posted her key back through the letterbox and walked out of Dennis’s life forever.

  At the end of the road, she stopped and sat on a bench. The adrenaline that had flooded her thanks to fury and shock was beginning to wear off, and now she was feeling wobbly. In the space of an hour she had lost her lover and resigned her job. The annuity from Arthur would not be enough to get by on and pay her rent in the boarding house.

  She needed to do something worthwhile to help with the war effort. How did one go about that? She could go back to Maud in Scarborough and offer to help with the refugee children, but she baulked at that idea. Thinking how she would have felt if Dennis had presented her with Maximus to raise, she was acutely conscious of how much her presence must have been torture to poor Maud.

  The name sparked a memory. Major Max Swift – Uncle Max – had come up from London to attend Arthur’s funeral.

  ‘You look and sound English through and through now, my dear. Your father would be so proud of what you’ve become,’ he had told her over the cold collation at the wake.

  She had smiled, knowing he meant to compliment her, and they had parted on good terms but not before Uncle Max added, ‘If you ever decide to help the war effort a little more directly, I work for a department that will always have work for a bright young woman with excellent French.’

  She had no idea what work Uncle Max might have for her, but anything was better than being unemployed, and if she could use her French, then that would be even better. Uncle Max had given her a card with his number, so she went to the telephone box at the end of the road. While she waited for the operator to make the connection, she felt excitement bubbling inside her.

  Arthur, Maud and Dennis had all wanted her to be Sylvia. They had all tried to mould her into the woman they thought she should be, but now there was no one with a claim on her. There was a hairline crack in her cocoon. She was ready for a challenge. She was ready to become Sylvie again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nantes, France

  1944

  When Sylvie returned home in the middle of the morning, Marcel was leaning against the wall opposite the épicerie with a cigarette in his mouth. He had a sketchbook in his hand and had begun a pencil drawing of the shopfront.

  ‘You must have gone out early. I’ve been waiting here since the épicerie opened to speak to you.’

  The back of Sylvie’s neck grew warm. She’d never been one of those girls who spent the night with men to then blithely return home the following morning still wearing an evening dress, but here she was. She swore she could detect a faint trace of Felix’s cologne beneath the violet water she had dabbed behind her ears.

  ‘It was so late, I stayed in the club,’ she said, hoping that would be sufficient detail. Marcel narrowed his eyes, and she got the impression he suspected something, but he made no comment.

  ‘I hope you’re fit enough for another late night,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a communication from England. There’s going to be a drop by air tonight. As soon as Mirabelle closes, cycle to the village of Sautron and wait by the cross at the edge of the forest. You’ll be met there. Take what you are given and leave as quickly as you can. You won’t have a weapon, so if there is trouble, try to evade it.’

  What would she do? Hide under a pile of wood? Climb a tree? It made her shiver to think of what she might have to do. She’d better wear something warm.

  ‘What will I be collecting?’ she asked, eying the basket on her bicycle. She estimated it was large enough to fit a small suitcase. Unlike Felix, who had been scathing about her wanting to know, Marcel answered.

  ‘Radio equipment including new crystals, rolls of film and a consignment of bullets.’

  ‘Quite a shopping list!’

  ‘Indeed. The package with the bullets will be the heaviest. Drop that in the empty milk churn outside the dairy on the road back from Sautron. Bring everything else back here. Tomorrow morning, take the package containing the film to the bookshop where you took the magazines and give it to the owner. Someone will collect the radio equipment from your room over the next day or two. Probably a young man with red hair. Good luck, Sylvie.’

  He packed away his sketchbook and grinned.

  ‘And maybe spend some of this afternoon in bed … getting some sleep.’

  With a growing sense of nervous excitement, Sylvie followed the directions to the village after that evening’s performance. Two men were waiting for her just beyond the crossroads. One older and one roughly her own age, both dressed in dark clothing.

  ‘Turn your backs a moment, please,’ she instructed them.

  They grumbled but obeyed as she changed in the bushes from the dress she had worn to leave Mirabelle into trousers and a dark-blue sweater and scraped her hair underneath a flat cap. She stowed her clothes and bicycle under a crop of bracken and followed the men into the woods. As they followed a narrow pathway deeper into the forest, it occurred to Sylvie that in any other circumstances, putting herself into such a position with strangers was incredibly risky. Well-brought-up young women did not go into dark places with men they didn’t know. If her stepmother could see her now, she would have a fit. The danger would not come from these companions, however, but from German patrols
if they had got wind of the drop. So many links in the chain and only one had to be loose for disaster to strike.

  They moved silently. There was no point in making conversation. They were there for one purpose only. After around a mile, the path split. They took the right fork, pushing through the undergrowth. Finally, the trees thinned. The older man raised a hand.

  ‘We wait here.’

  They crouched down and he handed Sylvie a canvas satchel. They waited long enough that Sylvie lost track of time. She stifled a yawn. Normally, by now she would be in bed, falling asleep after the long evening of performing. Two late nights in a row was not good for her. The moon was a thick waxing crescent and threw enough light on the sky that when a silhouette passed overhead, it caught Sylvie’s attention. She tensed and shifted position so that as four crates dropped from the sky on the silently billowing of silk parachutes, she was ready to run forward to retrieve them.

  She was surprised to discover the three of them had not been waiting alone. As she and her companions raced forward, three other groups appeared. One of them was a woman. She and Sylvie exchanged a nod and smile. She could be SOE or French; Sylvie would never find out, and it didn’t matter. The résistants converged on the crates. One man produced a crowbar and wrenched them open. The contents were swiftly divided up. One crate contained rifles. Another was full of tins the size of house bricks. Sylvie was handed a surprisingly heavy package for the size. The bullets. She slung it in the canvas satchel and stowed two other brown-paper-wrapped packages with them.

  ‘Gather the silk,’ instructed one man. Sylvie and a man from a different cell began to roll it tightly. It would be buried in the woods away from the clearing.

  Everything seemed to be going according to plan until a rapid burst of gunfire cut through the trees. Everyone froze, mid-activity. It had come from the opposite direction to where Sylvie had come from. There were distant shouts in German, then French.