Always In My Heart

by Freda Lightfoot

  Thousands of Parisians had already fled the city. Just days before the invasion, at Camille’s insistence she and Jack had tried to leave. They’d found the Gare de Lyon packed out. There were hundreds of people carrying mountains of luggage, desperate to get on a train and escape the threat of occupation. There were women wheeling babies in prams, young men barging about, and children and dogs running everywhere. Then a station porter had called out, ‘Il n’y a pas de trains.’ As there were no trains, with a resigned sigh she and Jack had drifted back to the apartment.

  As summer progressed Brenda noticed many neighbours who had escaped returned home, having suffered from starvation, bombing raids and severe losses to their families or belongings out on the open roads. Some were ordered back by the Germans, yet other people were still desperately striving to get away. And who could blame them? France was in complete turmoil: shops and restaurants closed, clothes, shoes and even furniture littering the streets. Chaos reigned as the Germans now occupied and ruled most of the country.

  Brenda’s mind flipped back to the day in June when the enemy had first entered the city. It was a moment in history that would never be forgotten. Jack had held her close, his arm tight about her shoulders as they stood together watching the rumble of tanks, guns and thousands of soldiers stream along the streets, the crowds mingling around them eerily silent.

  ‘We can’t allow them to get away with this,’ he’d murmured through gritted teeth. ‘We need to drive them out.’

  ‘How can we possibly do that?’ she’d asked. ‘These German soldiers look extremely tough and determined, and very strictly disciplined.’

  ‘We should make life as difficult as possible for them. If they request information or assistance for any reason we could pretend not to understand, send them in a different direction, or tell them the wrong train time.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Believe me when I say there will be huge objections and resistance to their attempt to control the French.’

  That night they’d made love with more passion than ever before, feeling the need to overcome fear and depression by putting some happiness back into their lives. It was a time Brenda would always remember, the moon shining upon them as if to glorify their love.

  Jack spent all of the next day out with friends. The phoney war was over and their lives had changed forever. A Resistance movement did indeed spring up, intended to provide the Allies with intelligence, attack the Germans at every opportunity, as well as assist any Allied soldiers or airmen in need of escape. Many such groups emerged across all occupied territory.

  Having a French mother, Jack showed far more compassion for the French than he did for the Nazis, and gladly joined the group in Paris. How brave he was. He used the code-name Randall, a slight variation on his father’s name, and quickly became involved in many dangerous projects. He did a great deal of good for the cause. Fearful though she’d been for his safety, Brenda had felt enormous admiration for his courage. He was a man of honour, so not for a moment would she have attempted to stop him. She would spend a largely sleepless night awaiting his safe return. Then, tragically, one morning she was visited by a colleague who sadly informed her that while engaged in a valiant attempt by the local Resistance group to blow up a tank, he’d been shot dead by the enemy. She’d been utterly devastated.

  As always, pain tightened her throat at the thought, her mouth feeling dry and rancid now that he was gone forever from her life. She was quite alone, locked in her own private world. If only…

  ‘I’ve had a letter from my cousin Adèle,’ Camille said, thankfully interrupting these distressing memories. ‘She asks if she can come on a visit, as she’s quite alone now that she’s a widow. Her poor husband died of a heart attack around the same time we lost Jack. I shall write and say that she would be most welcome, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course. What a splendid idea.’

  Camille’s cousin arrived just a few days later. Smartly dressed in a green coat with padded shoulders and a big fur collar, a wide-brimmed velvet hat and matching gloves, she looked very much an aristocrat. She was small and neat in stature but big of heart, with a pert mouth, chestnut-brown bobbed hair, and caring dark eyes that gleamed out at the world from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Brenda saw her arrival as a good thing. The cousins had long been close friends and were clearly both in need of company to help cope with their grief.

  Perhaps the poor lady also felt a certain fear in living alone, as did everyone these days.

  If Adèle decided to stay on, Brenda thought she might try once more to return home to England, although she really had no idea how that could come about. In the meantime she must concentrate upon keeping in good health. Her pregnancy seemed endless, and due to the shortage of food, not at all easy. But she could not wait to hold Jack’s child in her arms.

  *

  The situation worsened considerably in the months following Jack’s death. Paris became a different place. Coupons were needed for bread, meat, groceries, clothes, coal, everything. And they became increasingly hungry and cold. Each day Brenda would join other local Parisians in the public squares to search for any scraps of wood she could find to burn. Since the apartment had no open fire or chimney and they’d run out of gas, she made a brazier from an old tin that provided a small amount of heat, the smoke dispensed through a pipe that ran out of a nearby window.

  Every street, including the beautiful Plâce de Concorde, the Eiffel tower and all public buildings, bristled with swastika flags. There were posters depicting John Bull as a killer, among many other anti-British images. Signs that gave directions in German with barely a word in French visible. And the sound of goose-stepping boots was everywhere.

  On visiting the British Embassy, Brenda found that it was indeed closed. Even the skeleton staff present at the start of the occupation had departed south. According to reports the borders into Spain were also kept largely barricaded. Trains to England were still not available. Sending a letter to England was also a problem as they were generally blocked. It was very evident that finding a way out of France would be almost impossible.

  She felt trapped.

  Many other women were too: dancers, singers, nurses and governesses, rich ladies who loved to spend their time travelling around Europe. Even French widows who had married Englishmen were likewise looked upon as outcasts. The German hatred of the British was all too evident. People without the right documentation or who were Jewish tended to hide away, desperate to avoid being imprisoned or shipped to Germany. Some would be arrested simply for listening to the BBC. A dreadful prospect.

  Brenda gave birth to a son on 27 November, less than a month from her own birthday, which helped to ease the dark pit of anguish devouring her. The two ladies took good care of her and all went well. How fortunate she was. She would sit and gaze in wonder at his tiny fingers and toes, the soft pale baby-blue eyes, and the way his sweet lips pursed or smacked together whenever he was hungry. He was utterly adorable. She spent every moment of every day bathing, feeding and nursing him, and tucking the little fellow into his crib cuddled up with the silver-grey fluffy monkey she’d bought for him just before his birth.

  Now it was Adèle doing all the cooking, cleaning and shopping, running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, without a word of complaint. Even Camille did what she could to help, despite her rich, aristocratic heritage and fragility.

  ‘I do appreciate the care you’ve both given me. Being illegitimate, I was born in a home for unmarried mothers,’ Brenda said, giving a wry smile. ‘So I have no family of my own.’

  ‘Goodness, I didn’t know that,’ Adèle said, looking slightly surprised by this news.

  ‘The nuns were extremely good to her. Did you ever find out who your mother was?’ Camille asked.

  Brenda shook her head. ‘I don’t even know her name. I was given the surname Noel by the nuns because I was born just five days before Christmas.’ She really had no wish to find her mother, and still nursed a deep resentment
at having been abandoned at birth. It was a most cruel and unfeeling thing for any mother to do. Brenda certainly had no intention of ever abandoning her own child. He was already the joy of her life.

  ‘Never mind, darling, you have a family now,’ Camille said, giving her a hug.

  ‘You do indeed,’ Adèle agreed. ‘We love you and this little baby. What are you going to call him?’

  ‘I can’t decide. Should it be Jack? Certainly not Randall, or that would remind us forever of this dratted war. What was your father called?’ she asked Camille.

  She smiled. ‘Unlike my mother, he was English, and called Thomas.’

  ‘Oh, I like that. Thomas it is, then. Although I shall probably call him Tommy.’

  Three

  1944

  It felt strange to be back in England, her nervous tension still very evident, churning her stomach. At least Brenda no longer needed to speak French, and according to the latest news, France was now in the process of being liberated. De Gaulle had led a procession of the Free French down the Champs-Élysées. The Allies were also starting to arrive, including the British, the American and the Canadians. The war at last seemed to be drawing to an end. Would that help her to resolve her own problem?

  The warmth of the big farm kitchen offered a small degree of comfort. The familiarity of the stove, the clutter of old chairs, Tiddles the cat rubbing against her leg, and the chink of the old flowered tea pot and mugs they’d used when she was but a girl were all still in evidence. As was Mrs Harding, the housekeeper, who pretty well ran this house. Busy rolling out pastry, she glanced up as Brenda entered, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘By heck, it looks like a bag o’ muck has just walked in.’

  Brenda chuckled, accepting this comment as typical evidence of the cook-housekeeper’s Lancashire sense of humour. She had always been good to work for. ‘I dare say I do after such a long journey in this dreadful weather.’

  Mrs Harding’s faded old eyes softened. ‘Eeh, and you’re soaked to the skin, chuck.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,’ Brenda warmly responded. She could remember enjoying the cook’s homemade biscuits kept in a jar on the dresser, a treat she would also welcome right now, judging by the ache in her belly. Brenda moved to seat herself at the big pine table but Hugh stepped quickly forward to block her way.

  ‘Take off your filthy boots, then come upstairs with me,’ he ordered in brisk, no-nonsense tones. ‘You said we needed to talk.’

  Brenda made no attempt to argue but did as she was told. Setting her boots on the mat by the back door, she dutifully followed him in her stockinged feet. But, expecting to be led into the drawing room, she was startled to be shown instead into Sir Randolph’s study. Parking himself in the large chair behind the desk, he turned to glower at her with narrowed eyes, arms firmly folded across his broad chest. He looked very like his elder brother, save for the sour expression on his handsome face, which Brenda found most disconcerting.

  ‘What were you hoping to achieve by coming here?’ he snarled, not even offering her a seat. ‘Considering you are illegitimate, you were most fortunate to be given a job, thanks to the kindness of my mother. You then lured my brother into your bed and ran off with him. Had you not behaved so stupidly, he would still have been alive. So why on earth would I allow you to stay, in view of how you completely destroyed his life?’

  Brenda stood rigid before him, still clutching her heavy bag, her wet hair dripping down the neck of her blouse. A shiver ran down her spine as she struggled to keep her temper in check. ‘We fell in love. What is so wrong with that? Your father found us kissing out in the woods, not in bed together. It was his decision to banish us from the house, and Jack’s that I go with him to France. Since I loved him, why would I not agree? We were very happy together, and I still do love him with all my heart. Losing him has been utterly devastating.’

  Losing her darling child had been equally dreadful, but she was reluctant to speak of that right now. This did not seem quite the moment to explain all that had happened to her over these past years, and why exactly she had returned. If Hugh didn’t believe in her marriage or her devotion to his brother, why would he trust in anything she told him? And asking him questions while he was in such a foul mood wouldn’t work either, even though she desperately needed answers.

  ‘Jack would still be with us if he hadn’t joined the Resistance movement. What on earth possessed him to be so damned stupid?’

  Brenda drew in a breath to calm the flare of irritation lit by this dreadful remark, holding fast to her courage. ‘In case it has missed your attention, France was taken over by the Germans back in June 1940. Being half French, as are you, why would he not join the Resistance? Jack was extremely brave and honourable, doing what was right for his mother, her friends and family, and the country.’ Lifting her chin, she met his furious glare with pride in her eyes.

  He was silent for some seconds as he met her gaze, then grumpily remarked, ‘Jack should have left France long before the Nazis arrived.’

  ‘His mother wanted him to return home too, but he was reluctant to abandon her as she wasn’t too well. She’s a lovely lady, so why would he do that when she needed our care?’

  ‘She could have come with you. My father wrote to her countless times pressing her to do so.’

  ‘We also tried on numerous occasions to persuade her, but she declined. Camille is very much a daughter of France, and that is where she feels she belongs. Once the Germans occupied the country, it was not easy getting out. And as Jack’s widow, I cared for her after his death.’

  ‘Sadly, both my parents have now departed this life, so if you see this place as a future home you are very much mistaken.’

  Horror unfolded within her. ‘Are you saying your mother is dead? Oh no, that’s dreadful.’ Wasn’t finding Camille the very reason she’d come? Striving to remain calm, Brenda struggled to decide how much she should tell him. Before she managed to reach a decision, a knock sounded at the door and the butler entered carrying a tray of tea, cakes and biscuits. Her stomach churned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, whether it was one day or two. Maybe even longer.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, taking the cup and saucer with a hand that trembled slightly.

  Relieving Brenda of her bag, he brought up a chair. ‘Mrs Harding says to tell you that she is warming some soup, which you can have when you’re ready.’

  ‘Oh, do thank her for me,’ Brenda said, giving him a grateful smile.

  ‘That will be all, Carter,’ Hugh snapped.

  ‘Sir.’ Giving a slight bow, the butler tactfully withdrew.

  Brenda took a very welcome sip of tea and a quick nibble of one of Mrs Harding’s delicious ginger biscuits, striving to keep her nerves in check and hold on tight to her fading courage.

  There was silence for some moments, then he gave a snort of derision. ‘So where’s the proof of this alleged wedding?’

  ‘If you mean by way of a marriage certificate, all papers were taken from me, being British.’

  Slamming his fists on the desk, Hugh leaned closer, his jaw tight as his teeth ground together. ‘I do not believe a word you say. Had my brother truly married you he would have told me so, despite our father’s disapproval. As I say, Papa is no longer with us either, but I still need proof.’

  ‘You have my deepest sympathy for your loss,’ Brenda told him with some depth of emotion. ‘I fully understand how you must feel. It has taken me years to come to terms with my own grief, and it was the same for Camille. When did each of them die?’

  ‘Papa died of a heart attack less than a month ago, Mama some time in 1941, or so I believe.’

  ‘Do you know where she was living at the time?’ Brenda instantly asked, her heart thudding.

  ‘I assume she was still resident in Paris.’

  ‘No, she’d left by then. Her cousin Adèle had co
me to join her and the pair of them proved to be a great support for each other. But when the situation grew more dangerous in Paris they decided to move to her cousin’s home somewhere in the Loire Valley. Do you have her address?’ Now Brenda awaited his answer with a tremor in her heart. Wasn’t this the reason she’d returned to Trowbridge Hall, hoping her precious son would already be here waiting for her? But if not, she could at least find out where Adèle lived.

  ‘Never heard of the woman. But then I know little about the French side of my mother’s family. That’s enough talk for now,’ he said, and opening the study door, Hugh flicked his hand to order her back downstairs. ‘You can stay in your old room for tonight. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’

  Brenda’s heart sank to her soaking-wet feet, and keeping her head down so that he could not see the tears in her eyes, she walked out of the study.

  *

  Taking himself off to the drawing room, Hugh felt an odd stir of guilt within him. His brother was indeed a brave man, and they’d been quite close. Was his reluctance to accept this girl’s possible marriage with Jack really because of her illegitimacy and low status, or because he’d lost all hope of a marriage for himself? Their father hadn’t listened to Hugh’s desire to join the army, insisting he become a farmer, as that was a reserve occupation. Even Susanna, his darling fiancée, had been against him joining the forces, quite happy with him being a farmer too, as it was much safer. An attitude which made it all the more tragic that while visiting her parents back in London, she’d died along with them when their home had been hit by a V-1 flying bomb just a few weeks ago. A lovely and perfectly innocent lady who wouldn’t hurt a soul was now gone from his life. How cruel and heartless war was.

  But there were other problems.

  He shook out the Manchester Evening News and scowled over yet another report depicting misery and gloom, the entire country complaining about rationing and poverty. This war was costing a fortune, both in men’s lives and coin of the realm. His own finances were suffering along with everyone else’s. There’d been a time when whatever the Stuart family touched had turned to gold, or brass at least, and plenty of it. Now, the biscuit factory was rapidly going downhill thanks to food shortages, and the best workers having joined up. Not to mention his father’s stubborn determination to remain in the Victorian age and never update anything.