The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  ‘I think I’ll turn in. I’m very tired, actually,’ Vera said.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ her mother said through pursed lips, squinting down at her embroidery.

  ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ Vera called over her shoulder, crossing the hallway to her bedroom. She hastened to bed, pulling off her clothes in the darkness, but she took out her best nightdress – the eau-de-Nil satin with the cream lace trim – and sighed as it slid over her thighs, remembering the last time she’d worn it: My sweet, my darling, my love.

  The bed sheets were clean-cold, but her bare toes flinched from the boiling heat of the rubber hot-water bottle at the far end. She switched on her bedside light and pushed herself up against the padded headboard, plucking Dick’s letter from the bedside table. My darling Vee, Your letters are like oxygen . . . He wrote about the airfield, his pals, especially ‘Gu’ who’d been at school with him. He wrote about daily life, the food, and the heat. He wrote about the sunset on the sea, and how it reminded him of when they’d first met, on that long-ago cruise. He referred to the suggestion in her last letter that perhaps, as they’d been together so long now – even if so much of the time apart – they should think about making their partnership a permanent arrangement: Of course we should get married, darling, what a wonderful idea!

  That was what had made her heart contract on the bus earlier on, made her smile despite Mrs Neasbrook, Buckmaster, and that awful Dericourt chap. Smile even when she’d noticed the man on the bus, and sensed him looking at her over the top of his newspaper as she’d got off.

  But now, rereading the letter, she focused in on the following paragraph:

  I don’t care who you are or where you come from, darling, but I do have a duty to the family, don’t you see? I can only marry a British girl. That’s just how it is, I’m sorry to say. So as soon as you can get the naturalisation nonsense sorted out, I will break the news to Mother and you two can start making plans.

  ‘But won’t marrying you make me British?’ she whispered, frowning at the looping script. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  It’s a question of being seen to be on the right side, my darling. I’m sure you can come up with something. After all if, as you say, both your brothers and your mother are British, and you’re now working for the government – well, how hard can it be?

  How hard can it be, Vera thought, remembering all that had happened in 1937: the last-minute flit to the overcrowded ship, the interminable questions when they finally docked in Portsmouth, changing her surname, her hairstyle, her accent, changing everything about herself. And holding her breath every time the conversation turned to foreigners or Jews. How hard can it be? Darling Dick, he had no idea at all.

  I’m sure this blasted war can’t go on indefinitely. When it’s over, we can be together, and populate Felbrigg Hall with lots of little Dicks and Veras! Do you think you’ll enjoy being Lady of the Manor, darling? Or will I need to schedule in illicit breaks to the Big Smoke so we can revisit our dubious past?

  He joked about it, Vera thought. But he didn’t really know about her past. Nobody did, not even her own mother, who honestly thought Vera had been working as a translator for Pallas Oil back in 1936, and who still believed that Friedrich had been just another family friend.

  She let the aerogramme fall onto the counterpane, and touched her cool watch-face with an index finger. Dear darling, she’d thought that marrying him would be the answer to all her problems. To be married to Dick, to be British, that was all.

  That was all – but asking for it felt like asking for the moon. Vera pushed herself down under the covers and shut her eyes, aching for sleep, as the tissue-thin aerogramme drifted to the floor.

  Edie

  Edie opened her eyes, suddenly wide awake. The moonlight cast silvery stripes across her blanket as it seeped in through the shuttered window. The floorboards were hard beneath her shoulders and spine. In the distance someone was playing the trumpet, and that was what had woken her, a lone trumpeter bellowing out the Marseillaise into the empty Paris night.

  Next to her, on the thin cot, Justine was snoring gently. The moonlight lit up the edge of the metal bedstead. What was that wedged between the mattress and the springs? A slip of paper. Edie shifted up onto her elbow and tugged at it. It was a photograph. She held it into the moonlight for a closer look. There was Justine, smiling, a man at her shoulder, and in her arms a bundle of lace, a small face peeping out. Justine had a baby? Edie remembered the farmhouse they’d stopped at after she’d parachuted in the night before, and the little girl’s face at the upstairs window. Justine had said to be quiet because the farmer’s granddaughter was asleep. But she hadn’t been asleep. Edie had seen her, waved goodbye as the cart rattled off in the pre-dawn.

  She thought about her old ATS friend, Bea, and the fierce way she’d held her own little girl at the station that day. She thought about how she’d felt secretly jealous, because Bea loved the girl’s father, had a future with him. Whereas Edie’s own pregnancy had been the result of violence, and she’d let them kill her unborn baby. No, she mustn’t think about it. She was Yvette Colbert now, had been ever since the biting cold morning when Miss Atkins had pulled her out of her wireless transmission exam.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to call a halt to all this,’ Miss Atkins said, beckoning Edie to follow her along the corridor.

  Why, Edie wondered? She’d been doing well on the course – her instructors expected her to fly through the test – and she’d already completed the paramilitary course in the Highlands and parachute practice. There was just the final exercise to go and she’d be fully prepared for work in France.

  Miss Atkins paused by the door opposite the stairwell, knocked, checked there was no reply, pushed the door open and ushered Edie inside. It was a bathroom: tiled floor, onyx bathtub, and loo – all sleekly black, apart from the gold fittings and the semi-circular mirror above the sink. A frosted window, high up, let in a shaft of pale light.

  ‘It’s the only room available at present.’ Miss Atkins closed the door behind them and clicked the key in the lock. She flicked on the light switch, and shadowy reflections appeared on every surface. ‘In any case, we don’t want to be interrupted, do we? Take a seat.’

  Edie perched on the edge of the tub, feeling it chill and slippery through the fabric of her skirt. The room was like an abattoir in reverse – slick-dark and empty: a place for bringing things to life, instead of killing them?

  Miss Atkins sat on the ebony toilet seat, crossing her silk-stockinged legs and placing her clipboard on her lap. She began to leaf through the sheets of paper. ‘Now, where are you?’ she said. Up at the high window, a shadow flitted past on the ledge. ‘Ah, here you are.’ She cleared her throat and looked up at Edie. ‘We urgently need a wireless operator and your course director tells me you’re about the best of the bunch.’

  ‘But I haven’t completed my training yet.’

  ‘It’s true you’re a few days shy, but if we wait until after the final exercise we’ll miss this moon period, and we might not be able to drop you for weeks. It’s hard enough to get a clear night at this time of year, even when the moon is full enough for the pilots to fly by. But the Met boys say it’s set fair for the next week at least, so we’ll have to take our chances.’ Miss Atkins leant forwards, reaching across and touching Edie on the hand. ‘It will be dangerous. I would rather not have to ask you, but a situation has arisen – we’re very short of good people right now, and things are critical. But you are a volunteer. You can say no, and nobody will ask questions or think any the worse of you. So think carefully before answering. Are you willing and ready to go to Occupied France for us?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Edie, without hesitation. Backing out now was unthinkable, after all the work she’d done this far – after all the effort she’d made to leave her past behind.

  ‘Good, then let’s sort you out.’

  Miss Atkins looked back down at the paperwork. ‘We can use your pe
rsonal history as much as possible – start from the truth and work sideways: your childhood holidays in Honfleur, your Parisian grandmother, all these things will be useful.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Let’s see . . . we need to find a reason for your being in Paris . . .’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Didn’t I mention it? Don’t worry, I’ll cover it all in greater detail in due course. But first, let’s find out who you are. I’ve already had ID papers prepared. Your name is Yvette Colbert, and—’

  ‘And I grew up in Honfleur,’ Edie said, recalling seaside trips with innumerable cousins: gritty sandwiches and salt water in her eyes.

  ‘But then why are you in Paris?’

  ‘To study music at the Sorbonne, of course – I play the piano.’ Edie remembered an afternoon lesson with a private tutor at the Sorbonne, arranged by her grandmother as a gift, and the pigskin attaché case for her scores her mother had bought her afterwards.

  ‘So you do – but I’m not sure Jerry would buy that, especially if you’re not on any registration lists there. However it’s not a bad idea – being a student would explain your mobility, out and about between classes . . .’ Miss Atkins tapped her pen on the side of the clipboard and frowned.

  Edie thought about the piano in her grandmother’s apartment, and then a picture came into her head of Bea’s little girl, with her chubby toddler’s fingers and wide, blinking eyes. ‘I’m a piano teacher,’ Edie said. ‘I moved to Paris to tutor the children of wealthy parents, and ended up staying there when the Germans arrived. I’m always moving from house to house to teach spoilt little children their scales, carrying my music with me in my attaché case.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Miss Atkins, scribbling down some notes. ‘Yvette Colbert, piano tutor.’ Edie glanced at the high-up rectangle of glass. The shadow passed again – only this time it froze, and Edie could see quite clearly the silhouette of a cat on the windowsill outside. Its tail quivered like a question mark. ‘And we need a call sign, for when you’re transmitting – a nickname, if you like – something short that will identify you immediately. I was thinking Halfpenny, or Mouse, because of your size, you see—’

  ‘Cat,’ Edie interrupted, as the shadowy silhouette wavered and disappeared again. ‘My call sign is Cat.’

  Edie pushed the picture back into its hiding place. She shouldn’t have pried. Justine was entitled to keep her private life hidden; ignorance was safer. Everyone’s past was a secret these days.

  The trumpeter had almost finished his rebellious rendition now, working up to end on a crescendo. Good for him, Edie thought. But just then there was the urgent rattle of boots on cobbles passing the street below, and shouting, and the trumpeting abruptly stopped. Edie held her breath, wondering if the patriotic musician managed to get away. The shouts died off and eventually the Paris night was curfew-quiet again.

  Edie concentrated on slowing her breathing, and shut her eyes, blanking out the moonlight. She needed to rest. Tomorrow she had to find a safe place to stay, and to transmit from, and then her work could really begin.

  Chapter 3

  Vera

  ‘It’s been too long, ducks,’ said Penelope, brushing her cheek against Vera’s as they embraced at the bottom of the steps. ‘Whatever happened to our bridge afternoons?’

  ‘Terribly busy with work these days,’ said Vera as they began to climb the steps to the National Gallery. The barrage balloons were high up in the watery winter sky, like minnows, beyond the vast, comforting gallery façade. Coming in here, Vera always felt as if she were entering a palace, or a castle of some sort, with Nelson on his column like an oversized sentry at the gate. Friedrich had a castle, hadn’t he? No, don’t think about Friedrich. That book is closed forever.

  ‘Oh yes, your marvellous job,’ Penelope was saying, bounding along beside her. ‘I remember you saying you had an interview with some woman called Nips or something. But that was ages ago.’

  ‘Naps,’ said Vera. ‘I didn’t much care for her. Said I’d give it a month’s trial, but I found it suited me very well.’

  ‘What is it you actually do?’ said Penelope, her tin hat banging against her hip as she took two steps at a time to keep up with Vera.

  ‘Inter Services Research Bureau,’ said Vera, ‘in Baker Street.’ (She often found that, if one answered with information, people were satisfied, even if the information didn’t specifically answer the question asked. It was a tactic that had served her very well over the years.)

  The sun was high and bright, and their feet made trip-trapping sounds on the stone steps. As they reached the top and were underneath the colonnades, the sunshine vanished, and the air was cold in the shade. Vera ushered Penelope in front of her through the revolving doors, noticing how slender her legs were. I’m not averse to a well-turned ankle, Dick had once said. Dick had never met Penelope. He’d been gone months before they were ARP wardens together in Chelsea. Vera decided it might not be wise to introduce them; at least not until the wedding. She’d invite the whole world to the wedding. Yes, even that vile Dericourt fellow, if he was still batting about.

  They were inside now, and Vera steered Penelope in the direction of the shop. ‘I just want to get a postcard,’ Vera said, and Penelope agreed that was a good idea, seeing as they were here. There were reams and reams of postcards on rotary racks, prints of all the pictures that were no longer on show in the gallery itself, hidden away ‘for the duration of hostilities’ – however long that would be. Penelope said she’d heard the paintings had all been wrapped in newspaper and shoved down an old coal mine in Wales somewhere, as she spun a carousel. Vera fingered the glossy postcards, toyed with a Titian, knowing how Dick liked redheads (another reason not to introduce him to Penelope), and was reminded of that new wireless operator she’d seen off. She had red hair, too. Vera sighed, scanning the racks of postcards. In the end she settled on Velázquez’s The Toilet of Venus.

  After she’d paid they sat down on a stone parapet near the entrance and took out their sandwiches. ‘What’ve you got?’ said Penelope.

  ‘Spam,’ said Vera.

  ‘Lucky you. Mine are cress,’ said Penelope, making a face. ‘Funny picture,’ she added through a mouthful, pointing at the postcard, which was between them on the stone. ‘You can only see her face as a reflection in the mirror – don’t you think it makes her seem sly?’

  Vera looked at the print: the sensual rump of flesh laid out invitingly on the rich silks, chubby Cupid holding the mirror, and the woman’s face reflected in the glass: beguiling yet secretive. ‘Dick will love it,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s for Dick.’ Penelope spoke as if she knew him, even though they’d never met. ‘Do you hear much from him?’ She picked up a second sandwich. There was a piece of cress lodged between her front teeth, but Vera didn’t mention it. ‘My John writes every day, but the letters don’t arrive for weeks, months sometimes,’ Penelope said. ‘He always complains about the heat, but I have to say, I have very little sympathy – my flat is a perfect ice box at the moment!’

  Vera felt a sudden, unexpected urge to confide. ‘Dick’s proposed. We’re engaged,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, congratulations. How marvellous!’ said Penelope. Vera could see Penelope scanning her hands as they held the limp slices of national loaf.

  ‘No ring yet,’ said Vera. ‘There’s a family engagement ring – ruby and diamonds – but it’s still in the safe, and he’ll get it next time he’s on leave. That’s when we’ll make the official announcement, in The Times, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Penelope echoed, wolfing down the rest of her sandwich. ‘How wonderful. I say, d’you think we’ve time for a cuppa before the concert?’

  Vera checked her watch. ‘Not if we want a seat, dear girl.’

  As it was, they had to stand. Myra Hess was playing, and it seemed as if half of London had turned out. They managed to get a spot down the side, near an empty gilt frame and a fire bucket. A woman with a fake-diamond brooch and a sad expressio
n wedged herself in behind Penelope. Next to Vera, sitting on one of the precious seats, a soldier with a bandaged head and one arm in a sling was reading the programme. He offered his seat to Vera, but she motioned him to stay sitting, and read the programme over his shoulder: Mozart’s Concerto 453. The Orchestra of the Central Band HM Royal Air Force with Myra Hess, Pianoforte. The band were already in position, their uniforms a blue smudge, like good cigar smoke, up on the dais. Next to them, by the archway and the marble statue, the huge Steinway piano waited for Myra Hess. Penelope had started to knit. ‘Scarves for prisoners of war,’ she said, looping the wool round the twitching needles. ‘Hope they don’t send one to John – he’ll only complain about how ruddy hot he is.’

  Vera took out a cigarette. The smoke mingled with the scent of people’s woolly winter clothes, and their bodies, gradually warming in the packed room. It smelled like the upstairs of a bus. The band were warming up, squeaking and twittering like a flock of birds. Vera looked round. Some people were waiting patiently, hands folded in their laps. Others were talking, smoking, reading, knitting. A man in a fedora a couple of rows in front appeared to be writing something on the back of his programme. When he’d finished, he folded it up, and put it down underneath his seat. Then he took off his hat. He had fairish hair and a bald spot at the back of his head, Vera noted. He kept his coat on – she couldn’t see what colour the lining was.

  The orchestra stood, and the room descended into hush. Vera nudged Penelope, who looked up from her knitting. Myra Hess glided through the archway and anchored herself in front of the piano. She was in some kind of cream, flowing dress, but her arms were bare. Ripples of calm extended from where she sat. She nodded at the conductor, and the orchestra sat. The conductor stood, paused, then began his baton-less conducting, using just his index fingers. The band struck up. You could tell it was a military band, Vera thought; they even managed to reduce Mozart to marching music. But then Myra joined in, sculpting the score with such exquisite curves and cornices that even the RAF band began to play like men inspired. Vera shut her eyes and let herself sail away with the music. How she loved Mozart. She’d write about this concert on the postcard, reminding Dick of another concert, in 1939, before he’d gone and joined the RAF and flown away from her. She listened to the violins and the oboes and Myra’s deft constructions of sound and for a moment she was back with Dick, after a promenade concert at the Albert Hall, summer sun on the footpath, the air drowsily warm, her arm looped through his, when it was still possible to pretend that the war would never come: My sweet, my darling, my love.