The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  The weather had started to lift a little by the time Vera left the shop, so she decided to walk with her armfuls of bags to Oxford Street, and take the bus home instead. When the bus arrived, it was exactly the same shade as the hat she’d just bought. Sitting on the top deck, looking down at the milling London crowds, she couldn’t help but think how well she looked in her new hat, how she fitted right in. Very Mayfair, madam, indeed.

  ‘As you wish, Miss Atkins,’ said Margaret, drawing her back to the present. Vera liked Margaret; she was one of the best secretaries in F-Section. She had a way about her, something fierce behind those dark brown eyes – what a pity she didn’t speak French, Vera thought, she’d be useful in the field. Vera remembered the agent she’d just sent off: Edith Lightwater – Yvette, they’d codenamed her. Her French accent was impeccable, but her grammar sometimes let her down. Thankfully, as a wireless transmitter, she wouldn’t have to do an awful lot of local liaison, so she ought to be all right, Vera thought. Her heels clicked on the lino as she made her way towards her desk. She checked her watch. Ten to ten – still time to get a coffee before the meeting.

  ‘Would you be a darling and make me a cuppa?’ she turned to call to Margaret, who looked up from her typewriter and said of course, Miss Atkins, and got up to go through to the kitchen. Vera’s phone was ringing. Neither Buckmaster nor Tonkin were at their desks, she noticed. She could see her in-tray. She’d cleared it last night; before setting off for the airport, but it was full again already, a manila file stamped Urgent toppling on top. And what was that on her blotter? It looked like an aerogramme.

  ‘Nice of you to join us, Miss Atkins,’ came a voice from behind her. She turned. Buckmaster’s frame filled the office doorway. ‘We’re in Meeting Room 5.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  Vera checked her watch again. ‘Oh, but, Buckie, it’s not even ten,’ she said.

  ‘I sent a memo that the briefing would start early today,’ he said, ‘which you would have read if you’d been here on time.’ He was smiling, his voice teasing, but still it rankled.

  ‘I was at the airfield last night,’ Vera said. ‘But of course you knew that.’ She could see Margaret hovering in the doorway behind him. ‘Could you take my coffee through to Meeting Room 5, please, Margaret,’ Vera said. Buckmaster cleared his throat and turned to walk up the corridor, and Vera followed him, leaving behind the overflowing in-tray, ringing phone, and unopened aerogramme on her desk.

  The meeting took an age. Buckmaster was determined that the new Paris cell should set up sabotage of a prototype weapons development facility on the outskirts of the city at the earliest possible opportunity. He’d got wind that bomber command wanted to do a raid, but didn’t have the necessary aerial intelligence; he was keen that SOE tackle it themselves. ‘It will save lives and ammunition, as well as casting our organisation in a good light with those higher up the food chain,’ he said, looking round and tapping the bowl of his pipe against the table in emphasis. To her left, Tonkin was nodding vigorously in agreement; head bobbing like an old Christmas tree bauble on a flimsy branch.

  Outside, it had begun to rain. Vera lit another cigarette and sipped on her now-tepid coffee. The men were talking finance and logistics. She made a mental note of the salient points for future reference, but chose not to add anything to the discussion at that point – let them thrash it out amongst themselves for a bit, she thought, glancing at the window and watching the raindrops cling pointlessly to the glass as they fell. She was thinking of the full in-tray, Raoul’s wife on her way right now to the next-of-kin debriefing at the Northumberland Hotel. And thinking of that very young WT operative she’d just waved off, upon whose wireless-transmission skills this whole sabotage plan would rest. When the men had all stopped talking she took a final sip of coffee, and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘It’s far too soon,’ she said. ‘The WT was only dropped last night. She needs time to find her feet. Perhaps we should let bomber command take this one, and make other plans? There’s plenty of lower-level disruption the cell can coordinate in the meantime.’

  Buckmaster shot her a look. She held his gaze. Tonkin shuffled papers nervously. After a pause, Buckmaster cleared his throat and smiled. ‘Given Miss Atkins’ reservations, perhaps we should all double-check the details one last time, and re-convene before going firm on this one. Tomorrow at ten, then. Gentlemen, Miss Atkins.’ He nodded at them, and there was a scraping of chairs as they all got up to leave. But as she pushed her chair back underneath the table, Buckmaster lightly touched her sleeve. ‘A word, Miss Atkins?’ She nodded, waiting for the others to disperse.

  ‘That wasn’t terribly loyal, was it, Vee?’ he said, filling his pipe bowl with Old Holborn from the tin. Vera slowly lowered her lids and opened them again, saying nothing. If he thought she was just going to roll over and— ‘Sometimes I wonder whose side you’re bloody well on,’ he said, pushing the tobacco down with the ball of his thumb.

  ‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response, Buckie,’ she said. ‘Now, if you’ve quite finished, I have plenty to be getting on with.’

  ‘Yes, yes, off you go then.’ Buckmaster made a shooing motion with the stem of his pipe. ‘Oh and, Vera, will you please start signing the register in the mornings?’

  ‘I’ll sign in when you have a signing out book, too,’ she said. She might not make it to work by nine, but she rarely left before nine at night, either, six days a week – not to mention the nights when she did airfield runs – and he damn well knew it. He said nothing, merely frowned and lit his pipe. She left, not looking back, knowing that he’d be rolling his eyes and muttering ‘Bloody woman’ under his breath. She’d buy him a whisky some time. He’d come round. She checked her watch. But right now there was work to be done.

  She went back to her desk and sat down. And there, on her blotter, was the aerogramme she’d glimpsed earlier. Her work address was written in that looping generous script she knew so well. A letter from Dick, at last. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a smile.

  Edie

  ‘Shh,’ said Justine. Edie looked up. The guard was just coming into the carriage to check their tickets. The old woman opposite was still snoring; grey bun unravelling against the seat back, mouth agape to show blackly missing teeth. Empty fields of chalky earth pulled past the dusty train windows. Justine handed Edie the sock she was knitting: a triangle of needles dangling scratchy brown wool. Justine took out the train tickets and Edie tried, feebly, to carry on where she’d left off. She heard the guard getting closer, exchanging words with other passengers, and she tried to concentrate on the knitting. ‘Remember what I told you,’ said Justine.

  Justine had told her not to make eye contact with anyone in uniform. And then what had Edie done? Looked directly at the official who’d checked their pass at the station. And not only looked at him, smiled at him, too – a nervous smile: she hadn’t been able to help herself. ‘Why did you have to draw attention to yourself like that?’ Justine hissed as they got into the carriage. Justine had ordered her to keep her eyes down and her mouth shut whenever they came into contact with anyone official in future.

  The guard was almost at their seats now. Edie drew a breath, feeling as if her heart was actually beating out loud, audible to the others in the carriage, as she fumbled ineffectually with the wool. The sleeping woman awoke with a grunt. Justine handed over the tickets. The guard clipped them, muttering ‘Merci’, and was gone.

  Edie let her breath out slowly. She saw the old woman staring at her fingers as they tangled the rough wool. Justine, looking down, tutted and took the half-made sock from her, saying something in rapid French slang to the old woman, who laughed. Edie flushed and looked back out of the window. The sunshine had gone now, replaced with a sky as pale and watery as spilt milk.

  The train pulled into a station, stuttering to a halt, and the woman heaved herself up, bidding them both ‘Au revoir’ as she picked her basket off the seat next to her and lumbered off, leaving behind the
scent of unwashed clothes.

  As the train pulled away Edie saw the woman stood on the platform, like a black stone thrown into a puddle, surrounded by ripples of people and luggage and crates of potatoes. The seat opposite them was empty now, and Edie judged it safe to talk. ‘What did you say to her, just now?’ she asked Justine, who was knitting the sock again.

  ‘Nothing,’ Justine replied. ‘Just that you are a little simpleton.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Edie.

  ‘Well, what do you expect? You can’t even knit properly – I had to explain it somehow.’

  ‘Teach me, then,’ Edie said. ‘Teach me how to knit like a Frenchwoman.’

  Justine sighed and said she’d try, demonstrating with exaggerated slowness how to loop and pull the wool around the stubby little needles. She seemed surprised when Edie got the hang of it almost immediately. ‘Pas mal,’ she said.

  Edie smiled. ‘I have pianist’s fingers. They are good at remembering patterns.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’re not a little simpleton. You can carry on a while longer – you need the practice.’

  Justine rolled herself a cigarette, poking the ends of tobacco with a matchstick before lighting it.

  ‘Who are the socks for?’ Edie said, as Justine spouted a plume of smoke into the space where the old woman had been.

  ‘My husband,’ Justine replied. ‘He’s in Germany. Got rounded up for the labour camps. But I can post them.’

  ‘How long has he been gone?’ Edie looped the wool and shoved the pointed needle through, again and again.

  Justine shrugged. ‘A few weeks. They took him on Christmas Day.’

  ‘That must be terrible.’

  ‘No, being shot as a traitor is terrible. Being forced to dig your own grave and being shot on the edge, to save them the trouble of even having to toss your body in, that’s terrible. This is bearable.’ Her forced exhalation of smoke sounded like a sigh. ‘And you? Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ said Edie, pulling and twisting the brown thread. She had thought, once, that she’d end up with Kenneth, her girlhood crush. She remembered a picnic, sheltering under a tree, as the clouds blotted out the sun, the rain slamming suddenly down, and in the distance the deep bellow of summer thunder. She remembered his arm slung over her shivering shoulders. But she’d never see him again, would she? And there couldn’t be anyone else, not after the American, the terminated pregnancy, the shame of it all. There would never be anyone else.

  ‘Engaged? Boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. No man. No children. Less chance of clouded judgement.’

  ‘And you? Do you have children?’ said Edie, remembering the face of a little girl peeping out of the window of the farmhouse as they’d prepared to leave. But Justine didn’t answer, just frowned, sucked her teeth and looked away out of the train window.

  Eventually the scenery outside the carriage began to change from fields to backyards, factories and sidings: the guts of Paris spewing into the countryside. The skies were overcast now, grey as the buildings shunting past. The train slowed to a chug.

  ‘Here.’ Justine held out a hand for the knitting and Edie passed it over. ‘So, when we arrive, where are you going?’ said Justine, putting the bundle of wool and needles into her coat pocket. Edie replied that they were meeting the others in a room above the Lucas Carton in place de la Madeleine. ‘And who are you going to ask for when you get there?’

  ‘Marie.’

  ‘Is it Marie Leclerc you’re looking for?’

  ‘No, I’m looking for Marie Laval, with the blonde hair.’

  ‘Good,’ said Justine, satisfied that Edie had at least remembered the coded dialogue that would let the others know whose side she was on.

  ‘We won’t get separated though, will we?’ said Edie, looking out at how the train cut through the stacked-up Paris buildings like an iron through crumpled sheets. Justine didn’t reply, and just then the train ground to a hissing halt. Justine ushered Edie out of her seat, passing her the suitcase containing just her clothes, and keeping, as before, the one containing the wireless set for herself. The suitcase thudded awkwardly against Edie’s leg as she got out of the train.

  The Gare du Nord was as vast and cavernous as she remembered, a chaos of echoing noise and jostling crowds. She walked along the platform remembering the last time she was here, in 1939 with Mummy. She remembered buying two dresses in Molyneux: dove-grey and sky-blue, which Mummy said were ‘decent’ for entertaining. She’d felt quite grown-up, even though she was still just a schoolgirl, really. They’d helped Grand-maman Redette pack up a trunk, and her grandmother had cried when she gave her apartment key to the concierge, a wet rivulet forging its way through the rouge on her wrinkled cheek. Mummy had said not to worry, it was only a holiday really and she’d probably be back by Christmas, and they all took the boat back to England together. But in September war came, just as Pop said it would. When the first lot of evacuees came to stay, Grand-maman Redette went to live with a family friend in Bath, saying she didn’t like children, never had.

  Edie strode on, Justine behind her, as if it were 1939 again, and she was off to do some shopping and visit her grandmother, just as she’d done dozens of times before. It was almost a shock to see the guards waiting at the end of the platform, checking everyone’s papers were in order. But she’d learnt her lesson from earlier, and didn’t make the mistake of looking at them. This time she kept her head down, scurrying on with the throng, as if she were in a bad mood and a dreadful hurry. She flashed her papers as she passed, not even glancing up, noticing only thick fingers and a green-grey edge of cuff as her documents were momentarily scrutinised.

  She let herself be carried on with the crowd, through the bottleneck at the barrier, and onto the concourse, not stopping until she was at the archway where the terminus opened out onto the street. She turned back to Justine, to ask whether they’d be better off taking the Métro in this weather – it had just started to spot with rain – but Justine wasn’t there. Edie’s eyes scanned the crowd for the dark-haired woman in the brown coat. But there were so many people, so many shades of brown and beige, shifting like a pile of autumn leaves in the wind. She couldn’t see her colleague anywhere.

  Justine had disappeared completely – and with her the precious wireless transmitter.

  Vera

  Vera checked her watch. If Mrs Neasbrook didn’t arrive soon then the hotel would need their anteroom back and it would be awkward, very awkward indeed. She resisted the urge to pace across the tiled atrium and instead stayed where she was, arm resting on the reception desk, watching the hotel doorway.

  Netty, he’d called her, Vera recalled. My darling Netty, Raoul Neasbrook said – but he’d never shown her a photograph, so she didn’t know what to expect. They had a little boy; she knew that, a two-year-old. Would Netty bring Raoul’s child with her? Vera hoped not. The hotel doors flapped like a gossip’s mouth, but the only people coming and going appeared to be elderly gentlemen in dark suits. Vera checked her watch again – perhaps Netty’s train was delayed.

  At last the doors inched apart to reveal a woman in a stone-coloured coat and matching shoes. She looked nervously about, faltering just inside the entrance. Vera walked towards her. ‘Mrs Neasbrook?’ The woman jumped as if she’d been ambushed and nodded. ‘How d’you do. Miss Atkins,’ Vera said, reaching forward to shake her hand. Mrs Neasbrook pulled her slim hand away almost as soon as their palms had touched, as if she wanted as little contact with Vera as possible. ‘Follow me,’ Vera said, leading the way through the wooden doors and into the dining room, where waiters in floor-length aprons were laying cutlery on the white-shrouded tables. At the far end of the dining room was a discreet door, almost camouflaged, painted cream to match the walls. Vera ushered Mrs Neasbrook ahead of her, into the little room with the dark red carpet. There was a single wooden table surrounded by six high-backed chairs. A cream porcelain ashtray, empty of ash, lay in the centre of the table, n
ext to the smooth cream teapot, milk jug, and pair of matching cups and saucers. There was no window, but mirrors interspersed the fanlights on the walls. Vera glimpsed herself from all angles, reflected into a greenish infinity.

  ‘Do take a seat,’ Vera said, and they both sat down. Vera offered a cigarette, which Mrs Neasbrook declined, but she agreed to a cup of tea. Vera was mother, adding the milk, pouring tea into the cup. She poured one for herself as well, even though she knew she wouldn’t drink it. The crockery chinked. Steam rose. ‘I expect you can guess why I asked you to come,’ Vera said.

  Mrs Neasbrook’s face was almost as colourless as the teacup she sipped from, except for a brown-sugar sprinkle of freckles across her snub nose. Her hair, the colour of damp sand, was cut in a short bob, waving up, away from the pearl necklace that wound round her thin neck. When she spoke she sounded as if she were plucking pearls off her necklace and tossing them, one at a time, into her cup of tea. ‘You’re going to tell me that my husband is missing?’ she said. Her clear little voice flicked up at the end of the sentence, with just the edge of hope. Vera shook her head. ‘Dead?’ said Mrs Neasbrook.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ Vera said.

  ‘But, Miss Atkins, I had a postcard from him, just this morning.’ Mrs Neasbrook’s face pulled in awkward directions as she spoke.

  How Vera hated this part of her job. She patted the poor woman on her forearm. ‘It was very sudden.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘He died for his country, doing the job he loved. I hope you can take some small comfort from that.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘He said he was doing translation work for the Inter Services Research Bureau. He sent postcards every week. I got one just this morning, Miss Atkins.’

  Oh Lord, Vera thought, remembering the stack of agents’ pre-written missives she’d posted. How had she let one of Raoul’s get in with the bundle? ‘My dear girl, he’s been in Occupied France. The nature of the work means we can’t tell the families, and I shouldn’t even say he was in France, but I hope it will help you understand why I can’t possibly tell you any more about your husband’s work or the manner of his death. Please don’t ask for more information as refusal often offends.’ Vera couldn’t look at Raoul’s widow’s face, didn’t want to see the anger and disbelief she knew would be there.