by Mary Nichols
She had just over an hour to wait. Amy thanked him again and set out to explore the village. There wasn’t much to it; a scattering of houses, a farm or two and a tiny Victorian school surrounded by an asphalt playground. It was playtime and the children were out, skipping and playing hopscotch or simply standing about in groups talking. Next to it was the head teacher’s house.
As she stood and watched, a teacher came out with a handbell which she rang vigorously. The children stopped whatever they were doing and ran to line up in three groups. One by one each group filed back into the school. When the last had gone, Amy went in by the gate and approached the teacher. ‘Excuse me, may I ask you a question?’
The woman turned. She was past middle age, her grey hair was drawn into a bun and she wore a brown skirt, white blouse and brown cardigan. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Have you been here long, long enough to remember a little girl called Lucy Storey?’
The woman’s expression was wary. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Amy repeated the reason she had given to the stationmaster. ‘Lucy remembers coming to school.’
‘Yes, she did, but she wasn’t here above a year or two before they left. Her father moved for promotion, I believe.’
‘Do you know where they came from?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid.’ She looked back at the school; all the children had gone inside and the door was shut. ‘I must go. Sorry I can’t help you anymore.’
Amy thanked her and returned to the station. She really hadn’t learnt anything at all, except that Bert Storey had been as unpleasant then as he was now.
That evening she rang her father from the nurse’s home. ‘Papa,’ she said, after the usual greetings and exchange of news. ‘You are still in touch with the railway people, aren’t you?’
‘Not really. The government has taken over the running of the railways. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m trying to trace Lucy’s mother, so that she can come to the wedding, and I thought you would know where Bert Storey came from. I’ve found out he was at Eccles Road before Nayton, but where was he before that? The railways keep records of employees, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but how is that going to help find Mrs Storey? After all, she is supposed to be dead.’
‘Well, it would be nice for Lucy to know one way or another. If I could find out where she came from originally, she might have family. She might have gone back to them or at least they might know where she is.’
‘There are a lot of “mights”, there, Amy.’
‘Yes, but I have to start somewhere. You can find out for me, can’t you?’
‘Amy, do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than chase shadows? I have important work to do, and any spare time I have is spent at Nayton with your mother.’
‘I know, I know, and I wouldn’t ask, but how else am I to find out what I want to know? It’s important for Lucy. Don’t you see?’
‘I’ll think about it, but it might take a bit of time. You will just have to be patient.’
They talked a little more, then Charles rang off. Amy and Lucy lived in their own little world, concerned only for their own problems, and though they undoubtedly read the newspapers and listened to the BBC news, they had no idea of what was going on behind the scenes, the lies and deception, the risks and danger other people were taking, people close to them, if they only knew. He could not tell them, of course, could not even tell Annelise.
As far as the SOE knew, Justine was still in prison and so, they thought, was Etienne. It was not Etienne sending his messages, they were ninety-nine per cent sure of that, because although the call sign was correct, the secret code was still not there, but they continued to feed whoever it was with false information, but it left them all on edge, wondering what had happened to Max and the others on the circuit. If Etienne had given his interrogators his call sign, then he had probably also revealed the names of the others. Charles feared for them all.
And to add to his worries, and another secret to be kept from Annelise, was the fact that Jack was now in the Special Duties Squadron flying black-painted Lysanders and Whitleys in and out of France. Why he had to be so foolhardy, Charles could not imagine. He could understand if, having been taken off ops, he was content with a desk job, but to take on something even more perilous, just as he was about to be married, seemed the height of folly.
Jack himself could not have explained. He supposed it had something to do with being French-born and sympathetic to the plight of his countrymen and women who were trying to live under the yoke of the Nazis. It was also an empathy with Justine, who had been his friend and playmate when he was a toddler and, of course, his sister, stuck so far from home and unable to communicate. If they could fight the occupation with all the risks it entailed, then he ought to do something to help. In the back of his mind was also the idea that he might, one day, on one of his fleeting visits to France, learn something of how his family were coping, be able to bring a message back home, perhaps.
He had volunteered for the duty before Lucy had been bombed out. It had been a reckless gesture to help him forget his tangled love life, which, with the dropping of that bomb in Norwich, had suddenly become untangled.
He decided that it would be kinder to tell Belinda to face-to-face that their affair was at an end and so he arranged to meet her in London as usual at Marietta’s restaurant. She was so busy grumbling about the deteriorating quality of the food, he could hardly get a word in. After an indifferent meal they went on to a nightclub at her insistence. It was crowded with servicemen, particularly Americans, and there was hardly room to move, let alone talk. Belinda, who had changed out of uniform into a long evening dress and high-heeled shoes, was in her element. She loved the noise and glitter, and though he was ready to leave soon after midnight, she wanted to stay and it was four o’clock in the morning before they found their way back to her father’s flat.
She was, he realised, as she fumbled with the key, decidedly tipsy, and he wondered whether to put off saying anything. As soon as they were inside, she kicked off her shoes and flung herself on a sofa. He went into the kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee, noting she had no trouble finding things like coffee, sugar, booze or make-up; these things could always be had if you had money to pay for them. It was when he saw her well-stocked larder, he thought of Lucy, coping with the rationing and shortages in her little house, trying not to be extravagant with the money he had given her. It would never have occurred to her to go to the black market. He put the pot, some milk and sugar and two cups and saucers on a tray and carried it in to her.
‘You are becoming very domesticated, Jack,’ she said. ‘I would never have believed it of you.’
‘Yes, well, when needs must … You need sobering up.’
‘I’m not drunk, Jack. I can still make it to bed.’ She attempted to get to her feet but fell back again.
‘Not now. Drink this.’ He handed her a cup of coffee. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Talk away.’
He sat down opposite her. He hadn’t drunk half as much as she had and was cold sober. Why he had ever felt like marrying her, he could not say. It was, he supposed, because as a very young man he had decided the sort of girl he wanted to marry and she had fitted the bill. Although it had not been many years before, he was no longer that young man. War aged people quickly, made men of boys. It made you appreciate the better things of life, the good and bad in people, sometimes where you least expected it.
He had rehearsed what he was going to say, but looking at her perfectly coiffured blond hair, perfectly manicured nails, bright-red lips and silk-clad legs, the words fled. Instead he simply, said, ‘I’m going to be married.’
She laughed. ‘That’s a funny way to propose. Aren’t you supposed to ask the girl first?’
‘I did and she said yes.’
‘She!’ She sat bolt upright, spilling her coffee down her dress. She put the cup back on its saucer and began
mopping her front with a handkerchief. ‘It’ll never come out. It’s ruined and it cost the earth.’
‘That’s the trouble with you,’ he said. ‘All you care about are material things. I’m trying to tell you something.’
‘You just did.’
‘I’m glad you understood.’
‘Oh, I understood all right. You’ve been two-timing me. Who is she?’
‘You wouldn’t know her.’
‘What’s she got that I haven’t?’
He smiled. ‘My son.’
‘What?’ she shrieked.
‘My son. He’s eighteen months old now. His name’s Peter.’
‘I don’t want to know his bloody name. How long has this been going on? Ages, by the sound of it.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I thought you were going off me a bit, but I thought it was the war and all that, made excuses for you …’
‘I’m sorry, Belinda. I should have told you long ago.’
‘So you bloody well should. And now you’re going to say you’re only doing it to make an honest woman of her for the sake of the child.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m marrying her because I love her and it feels right.’
‘OK, rub it in, why don’t you?’
‘I’m being honest with you.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? I don’t know what Mum and Dad will say. Mum’s been talking of a wedding for ages, making plans.’
‘Then she’s been a bit premature, considering we were never engaged.’
‘Now I know why. God, to think of the years I’ve wasted on you … You cad, you unbounded cad.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘I don’t want to hear it. Go away and leave me alone.’
He stood up to leave. ‘You can still have your society wedding, Belinda,’ he said softly. ‘But not to me.’
It was a good thing she was too drunk to aim properly. The coffee pot crashed against the wall behind his head and hot coffee cascaded down the wall and onto the carpet. He heard another missile hit the door and shatter as he shut it behind him. It had been an uncomfortable hour or so, but Belinda’s anger had been easier to cope with than tears, although she had probably been right to call him a cad. He consoled himself with the thought that she wasn’t heartbroken and her pride would soon recover and she would find someone else. No doubt their mutual friends would be told that she had dumped him. She could say what she liked; no doubt he deserved it, but he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The war would end one day and then he and Lucy could look to the future. They would buy a house and he would find a job that excited and challenged him and they would have more children like Peter. He smiled, remembering his last leave. It had been frustrating to have to behave themselves, but Lucy had insisted and they had both laughed and said, ‘After the wedding …’ in unison.
It was five-thirty in the morning and broad daylight. There was no point in trying to find a hotel, so he took a taxi to Liverpool Street station to catch the first train to Cambridge where he could pick up a bus to his base near Newmarket.
He was no sooner back than his squadron leader sent for him. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Flight Lieutenant de Lacey,’ he said. ‘You’re to take a bod to France tonight. Briefing at eighteen hundred hours.’
He saluted and left to go back to his billet and catch up with the sleep he had missed the night before. He had learnt to sleep when and where he could and the normal daytime sounds of people walking about in the corridor, of loud voices calling to each other, of tannoys and aeroplanes coming and going, even the prospect of what was to come that night, did not impinge. He slept until woken by his servant at five o’clock. He dressed, went to the mess for a meal and then attended the briefing. Not that he was told any more about the mission than was necessary for him to know. He wasn’t even told the names of the people he ferried, nor the contents of the canisters he dropped by parachute, though he could guess.
Vera Atkins was there with a young man dressed in an ill-fitting civilian suit. They sat to one side while the squadron leader explained the mission. As far as Jack was concerned it was fairly straightforward. There would only be two flares, he was told, and they would not be lit until the aircraft was heard. Jack’s navigation had to be spot on.
He went back to his billet and changed into flying gear, checking he had everything he needed for the flight. He went out to the airfield, ready to do the pre-flight checks. Vera and the young man were walking towards him. He watched them speak to each other and shake hands, then his passenger, who was carrying a heavy case, continued alone and climbed the steps into the rear cockpit and was strapped in by the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away and they moved across the field and were soon airborne. All Jack had to guide him was a map and a compass. Everything else in his life went on hold until he came back.
He felt strangely calm, though his passenger was evidently nervous. ‘Have you done this before?’ he asked Jack over the intercom.
‘Yes, lots of times, piece of cake. I’ll tell you when we’re nearly there.’ The ‘lots of times’ was a bit of an exaggeration, but he said it, not to boast, but to reassure.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. I’m only doing my job.’
Jack knew where the coastal guns were on both sides and managed to dodge them without being spotted; it wouldn’t be the first time he had been fired on by his own side. They flew on, eerily alone in the moonlit sky. These operations were only undertaken when the moon was full, or almost full, and the shadow of their aircraft kept pace across the countryside below them.
‘How visible are we?’ the young man asked.
‘Practically invisible,’ Jack said cheerfully. ‘Two minutes to go. Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
Jack checked his position and reduced height. His passenger was silent, but Jack could feel his tension. ‘There’s the beacon. Hold onto your hat.’ He went down to treetop height, then passed over the first flare, touched down, bumped along and stopped only a few feet from the second. Almost immediately a man in dark clothes appeared by the aircraft to take the case from the passenger and help him out. ‘Gilbert?’ he queried.
‘Yes, and bloody glad to be on terra firma again. Who are you?’
‘Antoine Descourt.’
‘I shall have to ask you for a password, I’m afraid.’
Max laughed. ‘Titania.’ He tapped the side of the fuselage. ‘On your way, pilot.’
Jack, who was preparing to turn the Lysander round ready for take-off, turned in his seat. ‘Max,’ he said.
‘Good Lord! Jack de Lacey.’
‘Justine?’ Jack shouted above the noise of the engines he was revving for take-off. ‘Lizzie?’
‘We’re going to get Justine out of jail and Lizzie is OK. No time to talk. Get a move on.’
Jack gave him a thumbs up, waited until the two men were clear and turned the aircraft. Seconds later he was airborne. He circled once, wiggled his wings in salute and made for home.
As soon as the aircraft was airborne, Max extinguished the flares and scattered the ashes with brushwood, then he went back to the newcomer. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
Gilbert picked up his suitcase and followed Max through a copse of trees to a farm track where a small van was parked with its engine running. It had a gas container on its roof. A man emerged from the van. Gilbert, faced with a German in uniform, prepared to make a dash for it. Max detained him by grabbing his arm.
His look of terror made Roger laugh. ‘It’s all right, my friend. We come in many guises. ‘I’m Dirk to my friends, Hauptmann Otto Bergman to my enemies.’
‘He’s one of us,’ Max said, hoisting the suitcase into the back of the van. ‘And as mad as a hatter.’ Prosper, whose real name Max did not know, had tracked him down and told him to expect a new wireless operator, giving him the time and place and left it to him to arrange for his reception.
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‘I’m afraid I am going to have to tie your hands and feet together,’ Roger told Gilbert. ‘If we are stopped, you are my prisoner. Get that?’
‘It’s a fine way to greet a chap who’s only come to help,’ Gilbert grumbled, though he submitted.
Half an hour later they were in the barn of a farm, where Gilbert’s bonds were untied so that he could unpack his radio and make his first transmission. It was necessarily short and simply established his safe arrival, that Justine was still in Cherche-Midi and Etienne had been executed, but Antoine was safe and trying to rebuild the circuit. Then the radio was packed up again and they were on their way once more. Now Max was back in communication with London again, he felt immeasurably relieved, but only when they were safely in the secret cellar at Chateau Mollet did they allow themselves to relax. Anne arrived with food and drink and while they ate they talked, at first warily, especially as Gilbert still felt uncomfortable with the German uniform, but increasingly openly. Gilbert told them of SOE’s suspicions that it was not Etienne transmitting and assumed it was a German operator who must have got the call sign out of him. ‘But not his secret code,’ he added. ‘SOE have been feeding the new operator with false information about targets.’
Max laughed. ‘So that’s what all the coming and going has been about. The Germans have been making raids and putting extra guards on all sorts of weird places that we would never consider targeting. We thought it might have been Etienne leading them a dance, but then we heard he had been executed. And without him I couldn’t contact London. I want you to ask for rifles, a couple of German pistols with ammunition and a cover and identity documents for Justine. She’ll have to disappear when we get her out and I daren’t risk trying to get them here. It’s too easy for people to talk when they’re frightened.’
‘Do you think she has talked?’ Gilbert asked.
‘No,’ Max said. ‘If she had we should all have been rounded up and she would have been tried and sentenced before now, but they must be wearing her down gradually. She is due to go on trial in Fresnes next week. We mean to free her before she reaches there. Dirk is going to find out when and how she is being moved and if possible get a message to her. Until we know the exact route she’ll take we can’t finalise plans to intercept.’
