The Face of Eve

by Betty Burton

  The long escalators weren’t working, so that the people who had sheltered underground had a long steep climb.

  Today, a dowdy, bedraggled mother, carrying baby and bags, was trailed by a toddler still half asleep and grizzling. A woman in a smart Chanel suit picked up the child and carried him, his tousled head snuggled against her pearl earrings.

  Then, on the platform, a naval officer, still the worse for wear, was being helped to his feet by a man who might have been a paper-seller in the Strand. Eve’s mind played with the possibilities. If the entire population suddenly found itself living and working and fighting alongside people they would never have come in contact with before – except as boss and floor-worker, mistress and maid, shop-girl and society woman – perhaps the old class war was done for.

  Having deposited her bags at left luggage, Eve walked out from the terminus into the surprising golden morning and down to the Thameside walk: sun glittering on the peat-brown water; tugs hauling cargo; a few boats dragged along by staid, grey-painted and camouflaged vessels that must belong to the navy; small dinghies crisscrossing to pontoons and landing stages. Buses and trolley buses passed back and forth over Waterloo Bridge, Westminster Bridge and Vauxhall Bridge.

  Hell might have come to London last night, but the city was up and running this morning. Eve leaned on the Embankment wall, counted her blessings and discovered there were many.

  She still had plenty of time to cross the river to the building that housed some of the secret services offices. She chose Westminster Bridge to cross. From her induction time at Baker Street and the Scrubs, she knew her way about London. She thought: after the war, I could come to live in London… or Spain if things change… before I retire to Ryde. She smiled. The problem for her was that she easily fell in love with places.

  All part of the excitement of being alive.

  Once on the other side, she went again to look at Queen Boudicca who, it was supposed, would soon be in some subterranean safe house.

  Eve liked Queen Boudicca. She had discovered the stone statue during her induction weeks. It didn’t really matter whether the queen was mostly legend, she was symbolic of Ancient Britain and of the strength in women that modern times had obscured by hats and feathers and lessons in frailty.

  Why did we let ourselves become such pathetic creatures? I’m strong, the girls in the factory were strong, the women who fought in Spain were strong, the girls at the Finishing School were strong. So, why are we at such disadvantage? Maybe the war would change that. Women were taking over men’s roles everywhere. Nan, like the women going to the front line in Barcelona, did their day’s work and then went into the battle.

  Boudicca was an awesome, voluptuous woman attacking in a war chariot whose wheels carried blades to scythe through the legs of the enemy – an aggressive, bloody, ancient queen yet essentially a woman with firm breasts bared to face the enemy. How glorious the woman was. The angle of the head tossed nobly back made it impossible to see her expression, but her whole story was in the steadiness of her figure as she grasped reins controlling the racing horses and the dreadful war chariot. How limp Eve’s own beliefs seemed in the face of this warrior woman who was prepared to take the fight to her enemies.

  Eve hoped that the ancient queen would not be removed to a place of safety. It would be too demeaning.

  * * *

  When Eve arrived at Colonel Linder’s office, she found Phoebe Moncke and Janet McKenzie there. No Colonel Linder.

  Phoebe was brisk. ‘Take a pew, Lieutenant Anders. Relax, first names until we come to some conclusion.’

  Eve saluted, then nodded and said hello to Janet. Janet – dressed in neat pale peach linen that could only have come from America – looked good, her brown skin shining with health.

  Phoebe leaned back in Linder’s leather chair. ‘What we have here today is a bit of a rum situation. Understood, of course, that nothing said here goes out of this room, even if the idea is dead in the water?’

  ‘Of course. Why is it necessary to tell me?’

  Janet said, ‘What Phoebe means is that this is a wacky idea and whether it works or not, nothing will be official, no paperwork for the archives – nothing attributable. Phoebe and I have gone round and round with one another and we still arrive at the same place: stalemate. Go on, Phoebe, you tell it your way first.’

  ‘Well, Eve, Colonel Linder has now got a whole string of Bureau people – or, as we must now say, SOE agents – graduating from the Finishing School. As you now know, SOE does secret and dangerous work. Every undercover operation behind enemy lines means danger to agents and resistance groups alike. There will be men taking on the roles of railway workers, or timber fellers, women posing as hairdressers or… or anything. They will be the means of contact between people here and people there. In France, there is a resistance movement, in Greece… and the opposition to General Franco is not dead. In Holland and Belgium there will be operations that only SOE people will be capable of doing. We’re the experts, the practical people, the disruptive element. Leave special intelligence infiltration to SIS.’ She took a breath as though about to dive into water.

  Eve knew all this. Why was it necessary to repeat it? Phoebe and Janet had obviously planned a strategy, a double act, so she let it run without commenting.

  Janet got up and propped her bottom on a desk, standing where she could watch Eve’s reaction. Eve knew what Janet was doing. The second stage of the strategy was about to emerge – to test Eve’s reactions. Which was why this was an informal meeting – just three women speculating. Drinking tea.

  ‘A biscuit, Eve?’

  ‘No thanks, Janet.’

  ‘I see you’ve clung on to your thin body.’

  ‘Slim body. I’m keeping it for the benefit of the cut of my uniform. I’m very fit.’

  Phoebe plunged in. ‘You’ve seen a fair bit of the work our boffins do – absolute geniuses at forging ID papers, disguising radios. Any one of our boys or girls who are dropped into occupied territory will have every detail of equipment authentic and perfectly disguised for their assumed role… and it’s getting better all the time. However…’

  Janet took over. ‘No one knows better than you, Eve, that one tiny detail overlooked could easily cost an agent’s life. We all worked really hard to get everything exactly right to cover you in Spain. It was a very costly operation.’

  ‘All the time I was there I wondered whether I was value for money.’

  ‘Finance isn’t the problem – it is the safety of our people. Did it ever occur to you that in Holland a man’s shirt collar is fastened with a vertical buttonhole, not horizontal as here? An undercover agent in a French café orders café noir. Why does the Gestapo come to collect him?’

  Eve shrugged.

  Phoebe answered. ‘Because he or she wasn’t aware that there is nothing except black coffee in France now. The Gestapo aren’t fools. The devil is in the detail. Like us, they know. SOE is building itself a reputation as unassailable.’

  ‘I do know all this. Keef’s attention to detail provided me with a wardrobe of clothes fit for a millionairess, remember.’

  ‘Because that is what you were,’ Phoebe said.

  ‘And because your psychology was right, the two together – your training and the props – made you invincible,’ said Janet.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you were a guinea pig. I had time to spend with you. Only you and Miss de Beers to concentrate on at that time.’

  ‘And Paul?’

  ‘He was a gift. Except for a list of venues, he—’

  ‘You know he’s dead?’

  ‘Of course we know. It was a very sad accident, a great loss to SOE.’

  ‘And to his wife-to-be and their baby.’ There was a silence which said that they didn’t know. ‘He told Wilhelmina de Beers and me a few hours before. We were a threesome.’

  Janet said, ‘Three SOE agents, Eve.’

  ‘I know that, Janet. But human beings do tend to
form close relationships. They end – it hurts – we deal with it – bury it along with all our other emotional trash.’

  ‘Eve, we should talk about this. We will make a date.’

  ‘Now,’ Phoebe said, ‘every few weeks trained people are coming out of our various training establishments, or being recruited.’

  ‘And,’ Janet went on, ‘they come out brilliantly trained, psyched by me and my team, but vulnerable. The vulnerability matters, but more to some than others. Most at risk are those who will go into Occupied Europe to live supposedly ordinary lives – except, of course, that they will be working for us.’

  There was a short silence during which Phoebe and Janet looked at one another.

  ‘Oh, come on, please,’ Eve pleaded. ‘It’s a bit one-sided that you have an agenda for this meeting and I don’t know what the hell all this preamble is for. Tell me what you have cooked up that you want me to do, but don’t like saying.’

  ‘It is Colonel Linder’s idea,’ said Phoebe, ‘and I think it is a good one, and so does Janet. Janet has written a paper on prostitutes. I’ve read it and I think it’s brilliant. It’s not about the obvious reasons why men use them, it is about their use as confidantes.’

  Janet said, ‘My study was in several countries and in many strata of various societies, and what I discovered is that a quite large percentage of men don’t necessarily want sex, they simply want to talk, need to talk, and will pay the going rate for that. The need to tell is overwhelming. There is an element in talking that can free a man of sexual inhibitions – in short, he can get an erection that had been held back by his subconscious. And, of course, there is that very masculine trait – showing off to a woman. Even males who have no sexual problems will use prostitutes as a listening ear.’ Janet smiled broadly. ‘I was pleased to learn that it is usual to charge for that too.’

  ‘The confessional, with no Hail Marys to pay,’ Phoebe said. ‘Some men have egos the size of Texas.’

  Janet said, ‘That’s good in a secret agent – the attitude ‘I can do that!’ And not only men – we are no different. It is your ego, Eve, your pride in yourself, knowing that you are better, more competent, are ambitious… your ego is one of your greatest assets. But you are not egotistical.’

  ‘Is my ego the size of Texas?’

  ‘It may or may not be with you and with me,’ Janet laughed. ‘I’m not so sure of Phoebe – we don’t need anyone to admire our competence.’

  Phoebe said wryly, ‘Well, thank you very much, Dr Freud.’

  ‘No, no… not Freud – the man who thought he knew what made women tick and got us completely wrong. Actually, Phoebe’s ego is interesting. She has always known how good she is – hers is the size of Texas. However, she likes to confuse people by her scatty manner and dress. What she says is, “Look at me, aren’t I an interesting and scatty woman?” whilst hiding her great intellect within. Now, what is interesting with Phoebe here is that when one does discover her abilities, one is overawed. Didn’t you feel that when you first saw her sitting in her tricorn hat and gold lace?’

  ‘I did, yes. Quite a transformation.’

  ‘And very satisfying to any Texas-sized ego – right, Phoebe?’

  Phoebe smiled and nodded. ‘In a party-trick kind of way.’

  ‘The thing is with Phoebe, she has no need to boast. You and I have seen both Phoebes. But what if she was, say, the canteen lady at Griffon House with a senior WRNS officer inside? She might, just might, just once, want to let one other person know. Actually, Phoebe, you wouldn’t, but it makes my point.’

  ‘Which is? If you don’t mind me asking, because it’s all as clear as mud to me,’ Eve said.

  ‘That even those of us who play the game close to the chest have our egos to deal with.’ Eve thought of Alex, and her drinking and her pillow-talk with Duke. As far as Alex was concerned, Duke might have been anybody.

  ‘…“courtesans with good manners”.’ Eve had missed the start of Phoebe’s sentence. ‘Colonel Linder’s description… more polite than mine. I’d call them “FiFi”.’

  ‘Please, Phoebe, put it in words that a simple country girl like me can understand.’

  ‘Colonel Linder has asked me to see how you would react to organising a few very special trained women. They would be SOE.’

  ‘As courtesans?’ Eve started to laugh, then stopped short. ‘You’re serious? Train nice girls to become prostitutes?’

  ‘No, no,’ Janet said, ‘courtesans, geishas. They need not be sexual encounters. Seduction is an art that can be taught… learned. If necessary, I could talk about the techniques, but we have in mind one woman who knows a lot about it. It would be your job to arrange for the man ready to go on his first operation to meet one of these women. The men will be those about whom I am not one hundred per cent confident – who might succumb to a pretty woman, who might be a pretty enemy agent.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me why you’ve asked me?’

  ‘You’re the cat who walks by itself. Were you always like that?’

  ‘I suppose I was; I never had much in common with the children I grew up with. Being the cat who walks by itself doesn’t mean loneliness.’

  ‘I know,’ Janet said.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think running FiFi requires a person who can stand aside, be uninvolved but concerned. These girls must be respected for what they are willing to do, and this couldn’t come from a person who doesn’t respect herself. You respect yourself.’

  Eve had never had a better compliment.

  ‘This is not an assignment I could order any agent to undertake,’ Phoebe said. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Lieutenant Hatton said that you’d agree.’

  Eve left the office still warm from the glow of the compliment, but raging inwardly that David hadn’t told her what to expect.

  * * *

  David Hatton was waiting for her in the foyer of the building, wearing the same civilian clothes he had worn yesterday. Good God, was it only then?

  Stiff and erect, Eve approached him.

  His smile vanished when he read her expression.

  ‘You shit!’

  He flushed and then went pale. ‘Eve!’ he said mildly. ‘Language, language.’

  ‘Don’t you dare language me!’

  He caught her elbow firmly and guided her out into the September sunshine and on to the Thames Embankment, where yellowing plane trees were shedding a first leaf or two. Jaw clenched and still stiff, Eve allowed herself to be seated outside a tiny riverside café that also served an underground station.

  David laid a packet of cigarettes and a lighter on the table and went inside without asking what she wanted.

  She extracted a cigarette and was shocked to see how much her hands were shaking as she lit up.

  He brought out two cups of tea, plus a filled teapot, and four biscuits. ‘No choice.’

  Accepting the tea, she held the cup in both hands to steady the tremble.

  He took a cigarette and lit it.

  They had been able to let a full five minutes pass since she had attacked him with the words that had obviously shocked him.

  ‘Now, can we discuss the problem you have with me?’

  She sipped the tea. It was not only very strong. It was excessively sweet. She expressed her distaste.

  ‘Drink it, Eve. Sugar’s good for occasions like these.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she said sarcastically. ‘And what kind of occasions are these?’

  ‘Rage on your side, anger on mine. Adrenalin high, blood sugar low.’

  ‘Oh God, David, you are so smug!’ But he was right. Within a few minutes the trembling stopped.

  In a calmer voice she said, ‘You poke around in my life – not for the first time – you discuss me, give people advice on how to approach me. Don’t deny it! Your fingermarks are all over this FiFi job.’

  ‘They need to be, Eve. In the end, I am the one who must ca
rry the can if it fails.’

  ‘It won’t fail, David. I will see to that. I might detest setting up this little operation, but I shall set it up good.’

  He tapped his cigarette nervously. He was not good at hiding his reactions.

  Eve knew he felt intimidated. You’d break under questioning, David, she thought. Lancing College doesn’t harden you up a quarter as much as Lampeter Street Girls’ School.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Just us, David. “Tango Man and the Cat Who Walks by Itself.”’

  Looking directly at her, he said, ‘You used to be Tango Girl.’

  ‘History, David. Another place, another life.’

  18

  Janet McKenzie, Phoebe Moncke, Eve, DB, Anomie Nash, Vee Dexter and Electra Sanderson were meeting in Electra’s house. These were the women who, in a preliminary sounding out by Phoebe and Keef had not rejected the notion of ‘caring subversion – to protect our own.’ They met at Electra’s because it was private and neutral ground, and because Electra was recovering from miscarrying her baby.

  It was Anomie Nash who settled the matter of how they should be referred to.

  ‘“Courtesans with good manners?” What a blinking joke. What does he think we would do – sit around in boudoirs with peignoirs slipping off our shoulders? I’m sorry, whoever thought that up is a joke himself.’

  ‘Colonel Linder, actually,’ Vee Dexter said.

  ‘Well, Miss Dexter, I’m sorry if it sounded rude, but it’s true. Some men like to kid themselves… but to my mind sex for money isn’t courtly.’

  Eve wondered what Vee’s motives for showing interest were. Had the wife of her lover, Colonel Linder, found out about her? Or was there a new woman organising his life for him? At least Vee knew something about secret sex.