Finally, towards the end of July, she went off to the village with a basket of cheese to sell on market day. When she came back in the afternoon, she told me the name and address of a Resistance man in Beauvais, and then burst into tears. The horrible thing was that I didn’t trust her any more. I didn’t know whether she was crying because I’d be leaving, or because she knew I’d be picked up by the Gestapo as soon as I knocked on that door. Maybe they were already on their way to the cottage. Even if she herself hadn’t engineered it, I didn’t know who’d given her that name, or how trustworthy that person might be. I managed to calm her down and said, ‘Look, don’t worry about it now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
Then, as soon as I was sure she was asleep that night, I sneaked out of the house. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t want to leave behind anything that might get her into trouble if the Germans searched the place – or if her husband ever came back. It was a cloudless night, so I could see well enough and I knew how to get to Beauvais without going along any main roads. I stopped halfway there and slept for a few hours under a hedge, then reached the town in the middle of the day. I knew the street was somewhere near the cathedral, and that was easy enough to find, and then I wandered round for an hour or two till I spotted the house. I kept an eye on it for a while, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know what would have been a suspicious sign, anyway, other than Nazis marching in and out. Eventually, I thought, ‘Well, there’s nowhere else for me to go. I don’t have any other options.’
So I went round the back and knocked on the door, and thank God, it turned out all right. The woman there asked me a few questions, then some boys arrived in a pony cart and took me off to a place in the country. I was there for weeks. Most of the leaders of that particular escape line had just been arrested by the Gestapo, so everything had ground to a halt. They suspected a traitor in their ranks – well, I could have told them that. I did, actually, I told them everything I could remember about Jacques. Then another man arrived to interrogate me. They were a lot tougher, a lot more systematic, than the Belgians had been the year before. They’d devised this questionnaire for British airmen, asking all sorts of things that only we’d know about how the RAF worked, but also trick questions about life in England – what was the cigarette ration, that sort of thing. When they were satisfied I wasn’t a double agent, they moved me to a safe house in Rouen and organised a new identity card and work permit for me. It was more complicated this time, because anyone travelling in the border zone around Spain needed a special certificate of residence. That would take time to arrange, and it was already September. Then I was moved on a few more times. The Gestapo were really putting pressure on the Resistance, and meanwhile, lots of American aircrew were crashing in the occupied territories, so all the safe houses were stretched to their limits.
Finally, in November, five of us Allied airmen, plus some guides, started to move south – first to Paris, then we took a series of local trains to Bordeaux, then on to Dax, which is close to the Spanish border. They had bicycles waiting for us there at the railway station, and we cycled to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, the Americans moaning all the way about how tired they were. I suppose you know the rest – the Basques who ran the hotel there knew Captain Zuleta, and he came down to meet me, to confirm that I was who I said I was. It was so bizarre seeing him – not just because I’d thought he was dead, but because he was from a place so far away, so far back in my past. A lifetime ago – more than one lifetime ago, it seemed. And then, as you know, there were all those delays before we could set off over the Pyrenees into Spain.
Well, that was an experience. Clouds blocking out any moonlight, icy sleet, ridiculously steep paths – I think those Basque guides must have had goat hooves instead of feet – mud and brambles and slippery rock for hours and hours. Then towards the end, when we were at our most exhausted, we had to wade across the river in which two people had drowned not long before. We eventually clambered up the bank on the other side and were picked up almost at once by Spanish soldiers. Thank God the guides escaped. If they’d been caught . . . I don’t think I could have lived with any more guilt.
Luckily, that friend of Veronica’s turned up at the prison not long after we arrived. I thought it would be all right then. I honestly thought I’d made it home. So when our ship got hit, I was furious. I remember the explosion, remember being tossed up into the air and smacking into the sea, except it was on fire, too – there was a slick of oil on top of the water and it seemed the whole world was ablaze – and the only thing in my mind was, ‘How dare you!’ I don’t know whether I meant the crew of that bloody U-boat that torpedoed us, or Hitler, or God, but I was as mad as hell. I just refused to die in such a pointless, stupid way after all those people in Belgium and France had risked their lives to save me. So I ducked down and dived as far as I could, until I ran out of breath. When I popped up, I smashed my head on a broken door floating past, but at least I was out of range of the flames, so I grabbed the door with one arm and hung on grimly. I could hardly see, my leg felt like it was broken, the burns were agony in the salt water, but when I heard voices, I screamed back and kept on screaming, and eventually, I got hauled into a lifeboat . . .
Well. You know what happened after that.
Those God-damned Nazis. I hope they get wiped off the face of the Earth when this Second Front starts.
20th May, 1944
I STAYED OVERNIGHT AT THE COTTAGE on Tuesday, because it was dusk by the time Toby finally fell silent. Julia, who’d been flitting about anxiously indoors all afternoon, darted out at the sound of our footsteps, ushered us into the kitchen and tried to feed us some dinner. Neither Toby nor I ate much. Toby looked pale and haggard, as though I’d spent the afternoon draining him of blood instead of words. I, on the other hand, felt weighed down with emotion, far too full of sorrow and anger and pity to be able to take in anything else. Presently, Toby swallowed some of his sleeping pills and collapsed into bed. Julia spent some time arranging blankets and pillows on the sofa for me, then retired herself, biting her lip. I lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, forced to watch and re-watch a horrifying newsreel playing on the ceiling. Before my eyes, men hurtled out of the sky and smashed into pieces on the ground; mothers were dragged away from their babies and shot dead; the sea caught fire; people with open, smiling faces reached out helping hands, then suddenly turned into grinning skeletons wearing Nazi uniforms.
When I left the next morning, Julia gave me an extra-long hug and whispered, ‘I’m sure it was the right thing to do.’ Which only increased my disquiet, but she telephoned the following day, sounding almost like her old cheerful self, and said she’d had a long chat with Toby and that he seemed to be feeling much more at ease.
I wasn’t, though. I felt awful. I hadn’t told Veronica about Julia’s plan, of course, but I suspected she’d figured some of it out. However, all she’d said when I arrived back from East Grinstead was, ‘Well, I’m certain it did Toby good, having you visit.’ Once upon a time, she would have pressed me for details – she would have interrogated me ruthlessly until she’d captured all the facts. Now, though, she seemed prepared to leave them in my sole possession. It was gratifying to have her trust me so deeply, but after yet another sleepless night, I started to wish I could unburden myself, if only in part, to someone else. Then I thought of the Colonel, who was the logical choice. At the very least, telling him would relieve me of some of the guilt I’d felt about lying to Toby.
I managed to arrange a short meeting with the Colonel in Kensington Gardens this morning.
‘I would have invited you to luncheon,’ he said, when we met at the Palace Gate, ‘except it’s such a bore, having to conduct security checks on all the waiters beforehand, and search all the salt cellars for hidden microphones.’
I wasn’t entirely certain he was joking, but he seemed pleased to see me, so I didn’t feel quite as bad about taking up his valuable time this way. (After all, I did
n’t really believe there was anything in Toby’s story that might be of professional interest to the Colonel. There had been that traitor, Jacques – but Toby had already told the Resistance people in France about him.) I provided the Colonel with a potted version of events as we strolled through the park, and he listened with his customary careful attention. Then we reached the Round Pond, and we paused to gaze across its unruffled waters. The Colonel sighed.
‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘That Toby survived all that, I mean.’
‘He was very lucky.’ I realised now just how lucky Toby had been.
‘But it wasn’t just luck,’ said the Colonel. ‘It also took skill, and charm, and nerve, and sheer determination. Another man might not have made it through that first week. Still, I ought to have learned by now, never to underestimate you FitzOsbornes.’ He smiled at me. ‘Oh, and well done, Sophie, on getting Toby to open up a bit. It must have taken a great deal of strength to listen to all that.’
And suddenly I felt much lighter.
‘Speaking of FitzOsbornes,’ I said, after we’d turned back towards the Palace, ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about Simon? Where he is, or what he’s doing? He did write to Toby, but he couldn’t say anything much about himself, and I know Toby’s concerned about him . . .’
‘Well,’ said the Colonel, ‘of course, that’s all highly classified information. However, I can say that Simon has a posting of vital importance to the war effort; that he’s doing his job extremely well; and that he’s eating a lot of spaghetti.’
‘He’s in Italy now?’ I said, trying to remember how the fighting was going there. The Allies still hadn’t captured Rome, as far as I knew. ‘Oh. But he won’t be sent to France, will he, when the Second Front starts?’
‘The Second Front?’ said the Colonel. ‘What’s that? Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. But no, probably not. And anyway, you’re distracting me from the real reason I wanted to see you, which was to find out how my favourite nephew is. I haven’t seen him for months.’
‘Oh, he’s wonderful,’ I said, brightening at the very thought of Rupert. ‘He’s terribly busy with his work – whatever that might be – but he’s lovely.’
‘Oh, good,’ said the Colonel. ‘Although, I must say, you did take your time about it. His mother and I have been trying to throw you two together for years.’
‘My relationship with Rupert developed quite naturally out of our mutual interests, and had nothing whatsoever to do with your scheming,’ I said.
‘That’s what you think,’ said the Colonel smugly. ‘My scheming is not only consistently successful, but also completely undetectable.’
2nd June, 1944
TOBY HAD A MEETING AT the War Office today, an official briefing for all the ‘Leaders of the Allied Nations Whose Headquarters Are In Britain’. Well, the second or third tier of the Exiled Leaders, at least – I assume General de Gaulle already knows exactly how and when the Allied forces are going to invade France. I went round to Julia’s Belgravia house beforehand to wish Toby luck. He was wearing a neatly pressed uniform and all his medals, but I was horrified to see him on crutches, with one trouser leg pinned up.
‘What happened to your leg?’ I said.
‘The doctors chopped it off,’ he said. ‘Too mangled to save.’
‘Toby! Where’s your wooden one?’
‘It’s upstairs. I thought Churchill might pay more attention to me if I limped in, looking like a true war veteran. I’m worried Montmaray has been left out of their invasion plans, you see, and I don’t want them ignoring us.’
‘Darling, you look like that one-eared cat that used to follow Rupert around Oxford,’ said Julia. ‘Battered, but defiant.’
‘I was actually aiming for “pathetic and pitiable” to attract some sympathy,’ Toby said, ‘but “defiant” might be just as effective. Oh, here’s the taxi.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?’ Julia asked.
‘Better not, I don’t think you’re supposed to know anything about it,’ he said. ‘It’s all so terribly high-level and hush-hush, you see.’
‘Well, good luck,’ I said, kissing his cheek.
‘Yes, darling, very best of luck,’ said Julia. ‘I know “break a leg” is the traditional phrase before a big performance, but –’
‘Best not to tempt fate,’ he agreed. ‘Right, see you in a few hours.’
Then he clambered into the taxi and it puttered off. Julia closed the front door and led me back to the sitting room. ‘Oh, he’s up and down,’ she said, in answer to my unspoken question. ‘More up than down these days, thank Heavens. I really do think you were a big part of that, Sophie, allowing him to get all that off his chest. All those horrific experiences . . . and I know I only heard an edited version of it from him. Anyway, he seems much better. Although I suppose it could just be that now we’re in London, he doesn’t have to eat my awful cooking any more. It’s certainly improved my mood, being back in the capable hands of Mrs Timms.’ Julia sank down into a sofa with a satisfied sigh. ‘Oh, but I am glad about this meeting, Sophie! Toby needed a reminder of how important he is.’
‘I just wish Veronica could have attended,’ I said, ‘but they wouldn’t give her permission. Heads of state only. Still, perhaps it’s all for the best, if Churchill’s going to be there.’
‘You mean, after that speech he gave in Parliament, praising Franco to the skies?’ said Julia. ‘Yes, sickening, wasn’t it? But perhaps he just needed to butter up the Spaniards so they wouldn’t interfere with the invasion plans?’
‘Well, Veronica says the Fascist propagandists in Madrid have gone wild with it, and all the Basques and Republicans are devastated. She’s absolutely furious at Churchill.’
But that was nothing compared to how furious Toby was when he arrived back at the house two hours later.
‘That bloody Churchill!’ he said, stomping round the sitting room (he’d put his leg back on so he could stomp more effectively). ‘It wasn’t just that he hadn’t planned to liberate Montmaray – I knew it wouldn’t be an immediate priority during the invasion, I’d always figured he’d need a reminder about us. But he not only ignored everything I had to say about Montmaray, he isn’t even interested in the Channel Islands! And they’re British territory! All those thousands and thousands of people who’ve been living under the Nazi jackboot since 1940, and he doesn’t give a damn about them! I couldn’t believe it!
‘I said to him, “If this invasion of France works, you realise the German troops stationed in the Channel Islands will be cut off from all their supplies? That means no food and no fuel. So, are you going to airdrop supplies to the civilian population?” And he said, “Of course not, the Germans would take it all. Let ’em starve. Anyway, what have the Channel Islanders ever done to resist the occupation? Nothing! What a weak-livered lot of quislings!” He doesn’t have a bloody clue what it’s like living under Nazi occupation! The way the Nazis punish whole families, whole villages, if they catch one single person resisting them . . . And these people live on tiny islands, for God’s sake – they don’t have anywhere to hide. How can he possibly compare them to the Resistance in France?’
‘I know, darling, it’s awful,’ said Julia soothingly. ‘But we just have to wait and see how this invasion of France goes first. And even then, I’m not sure you’ll be able to do very much about it –’
‘Oh, won’t I?’ Toby said, narrowing his eyes. ‘We’ll see about that.’
20th June, 1944
I’D NEVER SEEN JULIA LOSE her temper before today, although I can’t say I blame her in the slightest. Toby, it turns out, has torn up the paperwork for his impending discharge from the RAF, and is trying to get the doctors to certify him as medically fit.
‘This whole thing is ridiculous!’ Julia cried. ‘Toby, you’ve already done enough. If you absolutely must stay in the air force, then go and work at Fighter Command HQ or something. But it’s insane to think of going back to fly
ing!’
‘Why?’ said Toby. ‘Plenty of pilots have returned to duty after much worse injuries than mine.’
‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Richard Hillary? And look at what happened to him! Crashed his plane during retraining! Killed himself and some other poor airman!’
‘Hillary’s hands were so badly burnt, he could barely use a knife and fork. My hands are fine.’
‘Oh? And what about your legs?’
‘Douglas Bader had two artificial legs, and he still managed to shoot down a couple of dozen German planes.’
‘And then he got shot down himself and now he’s mouldering away in some filthy Nazi prison camp! And that could just as well happen to you if you go ahead with this stupid idea!’
‘Well,’ said Toby, ‘it’s my decision to make, not yours.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ snapped Julia. ‘You shouldn’t have married me, if you thought you could do whatever you damn well please with no consideration for anyone else!’
Poor Julia. Naturally, she’s upset – she’s already lost one husband in a horrible plane crash. And of course, everyone’s on edge these days anyway. For one thing, we’re all desperate to know how things are going in France, now that the invasion’s finally underway. It began two weeks ago, just as I was starting to think it would never happen. There was a brief mention of ‘paratroopers in northern France’ on the BBC news early that morning, and Veronica and I dropped our toast and stared at each other and said, ‘Is this it? Has it started?’ She had to go off to work then, but I stayed glued to the wireless and, at about ten o’clock, General Eisenhower made the official announcement that the Allied forces had landed in Normandy.
The FitzOsbornes at War Page 37
