by Clare Harvey
Dericourt shrugged, and smiled. ‘Someone told me you were an interesting outfit,’ he replied in French, but using the English word ‘outfit’. ‘I used to be a trick pilot, before I joined the French Air Force. I thought you could use my talents,’ he added. And Vera remembered how it used to be: a man with a plane above a country fair, pulling corkscrews, screeching low over the crowd, showing off. Dick had taken her up in his plane once. And the countryside had danced and spun below them. She’d felt drunk with excitement afterwards.
‘Thrills and spills,’ she said, exhaling. ‘What happened?’
‘The war,’ Dericourt said, with another one of those shrugs.
‘And what brought you over here?’ Vera said. She inhaled again, watching his response. A flicker crossed his wide brow before he answered, like a cat’s paw ripple on a still pond.
‘You could say that the wind blew me over to the right side,’ he answered, opening his lips in a wide smile to reveal evenly spaced white teeth.
‘He’s willing to start immediately,’ Buckmaster interrupted in English.
‘Yes, good show!’ said Tonkin, tapping his hand on the desk as if in applause. Vera had almost forgotten he was there.
‘I’ve been thinking how it will really progress things for F-Section,’ Buckmaster continued, chewing on his unlit pipe stem. His eyes were shining and a smile hovered about his mouth. ‘It will give us so much more flexibility. We’ll be able to bring agents back in from the field, if necessary. And we can even allow them to send letters to and from home.’
‘Isn’t that a security risk?’ Vera said.
‘How so? The agent gives a letter to our man Dericourt here, and he flies it back to us. We can post it from London. It will help morale no end for the chaps to have some contact with their wives,’ Buckmaster said.
Vera thought of Mrs Neasbrook. Would it have helped her to have had more contact with Raoul? Or would it have made the whole sorry business even messier than it already was? She looked beyond Buckmaster to where Dericourt stood, listening to something Tonkin was saying. He pushed his wavy gold-brown hair away from his wide brow as he listened. His jacket was tight over his shoulders. Vera could almost see the shape of the muscles beneath the fabric. His nose was short and straight, like a boy’s. Vera wondered if there was a Madame Dericourt, and how she featured in all this. Buckmaster was still singing Dericourt’s praises, but Vera only half listened. She watched as Dericourt made a remark to Tonkin, and the two men chuckled like chums over a shared joke.
‘I feel like this calls for a celebration,’ Buckmaster said in a loud voice. ‘Shall we see if someone can’t find something a little stronger than tea, for a change?’ He was looking at Vera, as if it were her job to conjure up some refreshments. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the mantelshelf, contemplating how to tell Buckmaster in the nicest possible way that she wasn’t employed as a waitress. As she did so, Dericourt turned to put out his own cigarette. Their fingers almost touched.
Then Dericourt spoke, in English. ‘Do you like champagne, Miss Atkins?’
Vera nodded, thinking of a particular bottle of Bollinger she’d shared with Dick at the 400 Club that night – oh, that night. ‘I’ve not had champagne since 1940,’ she said, and as she said it her eyes flicked up, catching Dericourt’s. Something flashed between them, and for a moment it was as if they were alone in the room. She forced her eyes away.
‘Then perhaps it’s time you did,’ said Dericourt, reaching down to open the leather rucksack at his feet and pulling out a bottle of Brut. Buckmaster and Tonkin showed delighted surprise at the prospect of French champagne, wondering how on earth Dericourt had managed to bring it with him. There was discussion of his journey, the perilous trip across to the ‘right side’. ‘But one must always carry the essentials, no matter the danger. As I’m sure someone like Miss Atkins can appreciate,’ he finished, placing the bottle on the table next to Tonkin.
Vera was dispatched to find champagne glasses, but of course they had to make do with beakers. Dericourt popped the cork and filled them. ‘Vive la France!’ he said as they chinked tumblers against each other. It wasn’t chilled, but nonetheless it was a good vintage, Vera thought, sipping slowly and letting the men’s talk wash over her. Dick had agreed to marriage – champagne seemed more than appropriate. Darling Dick.
When Tonkin took Dericourt off to fill in paperwork, Buckmaster drained the last of his champagne and lit his pipe. ‘Seems like that Dericourt chap has a bit of a soft spot for you, Vee,’ said Buckmaster through clenched teeth as he sucked to ignite the tobacco in the bowl. Vera wondered if Buckie was jealous. She responded with a question: ‘How exactly did Dericourt come our way?’ she said.
‘Got out through Marseille, with help from the Yanks. Took his chance when he could.’
‘But why now?’
‘Why not now? Does it matter? Think of his utility: a French-speaking trick pilot able to fly into Occupied France for us. It’s a godsend, Vera, that’s what it is.’ Buckmaster exhaled a gush of smoke.
Vera considered Dericourt – the godsend – with his charm, firm handshakes and earnest eyes. ‘And the vetting process?’ she said.
‘No time for that. We had to snaffle him up before someone else did. Besides, he’s completely solid. Tonkin knew him in Paris before the war; he’s totally onside. One can tell, don’t you think?’
Vera remembered what Dick had said about the barnstorming pilots he’d known: charlatans and gypsies, every last one, he’d said; they’ll take you for a ride in more ways than one. ‘My dear boy, are you quite certain he’s one of us?’ she said. ‘Don’t you think he seems just a little hail-fellow-well-met?’
‘Oh Vee, there’s no time to be suspicious. There’s a war to be won,’ Buckmaster said, a frown beginning to form between his thick brows.
Let him think that, Vera thought, sipping her champagne. Perhaps it was better for Buckmaster not to dwell too deeply on people’s motives or their backgrounds. She checked her watch. It was time she was elsewhere.
Edie
It was dark and smoky in the little bar, but they had seats near the fire, and Felix had ordered them something to eat and drink. It was a relief to be out of the rain. They appeared to be the only customers. ‘Not quite on a par with the Savoy, but all things considered, it’s not bad. The barman – Paul – is one of ours. This is one of the places we use as a letterbox, along with Claude’s garage and various other locations, which Justine can fill you in on. We can’t be seen coming to you – better that we don’t even know your location, in fact – so you’ll need to scoot around between letterboxes. But try not to be too sociable; don’t draw attention to yourself. In retrospect Gilbert was out and about too much. Poor Gilbert.’ Felix sighed and shook his head. ‘But of course you know all this,’ he said, stretching out long, tapered fingers towards the flames. ‘They cover it all in training these days, don’t they – I’m afraid I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.’
‘Not at all,’ Edie said, finally feeling the warmth beginning to seep back into her as the fire leapt and crackled.
‘We have to be safe,’ Felix said. ‘Odd as it seems, even though you’ll be my mouthpiece to London, this could be both the first and last time we have a chance to talk to each other!’ He laughed as he said it, and Edie joined in, rubbing her hands and feeling the heat from the fire on her face. The barman brought the tray of ersatz coffee and croque-monsieurs, and she listened to Felix as he filled her in on the details of the Resistance cell, and the ambitious plans he was formulating to scupper a depot he’d learned about on the outskirts of the city, where the Germans were developing a new type of weapon.
Afterwards, when the rain had cleared, Felix walked her across the river towards the area where Justine lived, where she’d be spending the night (‘Just to help you get on your feet, eh? And after that we’ll be throwing you to the wolves and you’ll have to find your own way, I’m afraid’) and they paused, halfway acro
ss, where there was no one about, to look at the Seine snaking glassily below, green-grey – the same colour as a German soldier’s uniform, Edie thought. ‘I much prefer Paris to London,’ Felix said. ‘Don’t you? Even the Seine is freer than the stuffy old Thames. And the people; the French are just so much more, more accepting than the Brits, even with the bloody Boche in charge.’
‘Your heart is here,’ said Edie, looking at the sinuous water, thinking of the way Felix kissed Claude goodbye.
‘Yes it is,’ Felix said. ‘And yours? Where’s your heart, Mademoiselle Yvette Colbert? In London or Paris?’
‘Me? I don’t have a heart,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t on Miss Atkins’ list of requisite items to pack.’
At this, he guffawed. ‘Quite right too. Miss Atkins, eh? What a woman! What was your first impression of the old girl?’ Edie thought back to that afternoon at the end of last summer, when it all began.
‘It’s not for ninnies, you know,’ the woman said, placing a business card in front of her on the table and sitting down opposite in the window seat. The late-afternoon sunshine streamed in through the window, putting the woman in shadow – all you noticed were her wine-red lips. Edie looked down at the card:
Miss Vera Atkins
Inter Services Research Bureau
Norgeby House, Baker Street, London
‘I beg your pardon?’ Edie said, looking up at the woman – this ‘Miss Atkins’, whoever she was.
‘I said, it’s not for ninnies,’ Miss Atkins repeated, signalling to the waitress. A tired-looking woman in a cap and apron wandered over and said, ‘Yes, madam.’ There were dark circles of sweat under the armpits of her ‘nippy’ uniform. ‘Two coffees, if you would, please,’ said Miss Atkins, and the waitress nodded and was gone. ‘I don’t know what they mentioned in your interview at the War Box, but this line of work is not everyone’s—’ Miss Atkins paused, just for a second, as if having to search for the correct phrase. ‘Cup of tea,’ she finished. She took out a silver cigarette case and flipped it open, offering it to Edie, who shook her head. ‘As you wish,’ Miss Atkins said, clicking a lighter and taking her first inhalation before speaking again. ‘Vous parlez français?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Good. Then I should like you to respond to my questions in the language in which they are framed. Is that clear?’ Edie nodded. ‘Ah, here’s the coffee.’ The waitress had sidled back with a clinking tray, and Miss Atkins directed her where to put the cups, the sugar bowl and the milk jug, before saying thank you, that will be all, and shooing her away.
‘Miss Atkins,’ Edie began, but she was hushed by the other woman holding up a hand, like a schoolmistress requesting silence.
‘Coffee first, chat later,’ she said, exhaling. Her cigarette smoke curled up through the thick yellow sunshine. Edie poured milk into her cup and took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like watery liquorice. She looked over at the woman opposite her. She wore a dull red frock with a bow at the neck. The colour didn’t quite match her lipstick. Why wasn’t she in uniform? Edie wondered. The interview in the airless room at the War Office had been with a Colonel Potter, who’d been very friendly, but rather vague, and after making her wait for a very long time whilst he ‘popped out to make a call’, returned and placed a card in her palm with an address and a time and told her to ‘meet one of the officers from the team’ in order to ‘establish further communication’. If she were being interviewed for a military role, why wasn’t the recruiting officer in uniform, and why was the interview taking place in the top-floor café in Lyons Corner House, Oxford Street?
She saw Miss Atkins tap her cigarette in the ashtray, take a sip of coffee, and make a face. ‘I forgot they serve Camp coffee here,’ she said. ‘Atrocious.’ She pushed the cup away and took another drag of her cigarette. Edie could hear the clatter of the crockery as the waitress cleared a nearby table, and a dull rumble from the traffic, four floors below, but other than that it was rather quiet, the café almost empty: too late for tea, too early for supper, she supposed. Apart from the four WAAFs at the table by the door, and the man in the corner camouflaged behind a copy of The Times and a cloud of pipe smoke, they were almost alone.
The mixture of smoke and steam from the urn and the sunshine-choked air was beginning to make Edie’s head ache. She got up and went to the window, pushing up the heavy sash, glimpsing the tops of buses and scurrying figures on the street below. ‘You don’t mind?’ said Edie.
‘Not at all, dear girl,’ said Miss Atkins. ‘But, as the coffee is clearly too awful to drink, let’s get to business.’ Manicured hands flourished, urging her to sit back down. As Edie sat, she saw Miss Atkins’ red lips part, ready to speak.
‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez de moi?’ Edie said, getting in first. She saw a frown flick across the older woman’s brow. She’s annoyed that I’m taking the initiative, asking questions, choosing the language, Edie thought. But the frown was quickly replaced by a fleeting smile – what very white teeth Miss Atkins had between that burgundy slash of lipstick.
‘What do I want with you? You have certain – how should one say? – qualities, which might be of great use for the war effort. But I must tell you at once that this post comes under the heading of “dangerous work”, you understand.’ Miss Atkins replied in French, and waited for Edie’s nod of assent before continuing. ‘I see that you’re in the ATS – a gunner girl, no less – good. So, I can’t imagine you’ll be what the English like to call a “wet fish”, no?’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and regarded Edie across the café table.
‘But I don’t understand what I’m being asked to do,’ Edie said, looking into Miss Atkins’ eyes, soot-dark in the sharp shadow. She saw the woman’s head turn slightly in the direction of the man at the corner table, parting her lips to let the smoke out. Then she smiled again, showing those beautiful teeth.
‘I say, it’s such a glorious day,’ she said loudly, reverting to English. ‘Shall we settle up here and do a little window shopping?’ She ground out her cigarette into the ashtray. Edie nodded and the two women stood up. Miss Atkins checked the menu card and left a pile of coins on the table. ‘Rather a generous tip for quite possibly the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had, but no matter,’ she said, ushering Edie ahead of her out of the café door.
They walked together along Oxford Street towards Marble Arch, squinting into the lowering sunshine, pausing occasionally to glance unseeingly at the paltry displays of merchandise behind the criss-cross of protective tape on the plate-glass windows – there hadn’t been an air raid for weeks now, but the shopkeepers weren’t taking any chances. They spoke rapidly, alternating between French and English, but to passers-by they would just have looked like two ordinary women, shopping and gossiping on their way home from work.
At Marble Arch they took their leave, shaking hands cordially, before Miss Atkins crossed the street to catch her bus. It was only once the bus had gone that Edie looked down at the compact pile of paperwork that Miss Atkins had pressed into her palm: a travel warrant, and a slip of paper with an address and time, written in tiny, pinprick writing.
‘I didn’t know what to make of her at first,’ Edie said, answering Felix at last.
‘Nobody does. And yet somehow we all end up doing her bidding, don’t we? What a woman!’ he repeated. They walked on together in companionable silence, and despite the speeding black cars full of uniformed men, and the street signs that had been translated from French to German, she felt safe beside him. She felt as if she could breathe again as he led her into a maze of small streets.
Felix stopped at a small junction, pointing the way to Justine’s apartment. ‘Best if I leave you here. Best for us not to be seen together at her apartment,’ he said, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. He held her firmly before letting her go, swathing her in his long arms, and crushing her in tight to his thick woollen coat. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle. Miss Atkins chose well when she chose you. I know you won
’t let us down.’ And then he was gone, disappearing into the grey shadows of the alleyways.
Miss Atkins chose well, he’d said. Edie thought about this as she pressed the metal button next to the card that had Justine Hescoet printed on it in fading ink. She waited, shifting from foot to foot. There was no response from inside, so she pressed the button again. A shutter banged open from an upstairs window. Miss Atkins chose well when she chose you: Edie repeated the phrase to herself like a mantra as she listened to the dull thud of footsteps coming down the stairwell and waited for the click of the front-door latch.
Vera
‘Not going out tonight?’ Mother said, arching her brow. ‘That man of yours – whoever he is – seems to think he can just pick you up and drop you off whenever he chooses!’
‘Leave it, Mother,’ Vera said. The blackout blind had come undone, and she could see the waning sliver of silver moon quivering like a distant barrage balloon in the darkening skies. She fastened the blind tight, and the moon disappeared. No airport run today – the Met predicted storms over the Channel tonight, although it should be clear again tomorrow.
Vera thought it strange that her mother had never connected her ‘gadding about with all and sundry’ with the phases of the moon. And – having signed the Official Secrets Act – Vera would never be able to breathe a word of the truth of it. Perhaps Mother would go to her grave believing she had had tempestuous love affairs throughout the war, Vera thought, turning on the standard lamp. Or was it time to finally tell her about Flying Officer Richard Ketton-Cremer?
Vera flicked the radio on. It began to hum and hiss its way to full volume. She thought about Dick’s letter, waiting on her bedside table. No, she wouldn’t tell Mother about the engagement until it was all settled, until she had a ring on her finger and an announcement in the papers, Vera thought, remembering the mess she’d got herself into with Friedrich, all those years ago. No, don’t think about Friedrich – it was a different life then, you were a different woman.
