String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Boyd said. ‘You’re wondering if he really is Miroslav Levy. When you go through his file you’ll learn that Miro was a very talented musician. He twice played solo with the Prague State Orchestra. Have you heard him play the clarinet?’

  ‘As far as I know he has not mentioned music since he arrived in England.’

  ‘Well then. You have an easy task,’ she said.

  Finding a good clarinet and some Van Doren reeds, which Simon had been advised were the best, was no problem in London, but how could he prevent Miro from realizing that he was checking on him? He couldn’t, he decided.

  It was bright and sunny when Simon arrived back the following day at noon, but he was feeling depressed. He had never hated his work as much as when he placed two provocative sibs from PWE into his briefcase and left it unlocked on his desk. He went to the kitchen to announce his intention of catching some fish around the wreck. Adding: ‘I’ll be at least an hour,’ in case there was any doubt about this. Miro was sitting at the kitchen table helping Daisy shell peas.

  Miro watched Simon leave and shortly afterwards saw him row out to the wreck in the small dinghy he had purchased for the family to mess around in. The peas were just about finished when Daisy announced that she was going to make an apple pie. Lately she was going through a period of domesticity and normally he would grumble, but it fell in with his plans. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I have better things to do.’

  He ran up two fights of stairs and peered out of the attic window. Helen was helping John saddle the mares for her training class in the afternoon. He could see Simon sitting in the dinghy, which was bobbing over the waves. Daisy was absorbed with God knows what dreams of marriage and kids. She was practising making pies for a future family. He fought off a wave of depression and went into Simon’s room. He listened to the mournful gulls and the sound of children’s voices singing hymns in the church hall down the road and then he got to work. There was a memo written to Simon from his commanding officer stating that the Anglo-American installation of a rocket base at Eilean nan Ron, an island in the Outer Hebrides, was to be guarded equally by English and American troops. ‘This base will be capable of sending rockets with atomic warheads as far as Berlin. The 29th Infantry has been picked to send a squad of fifty men, all of whom should be proficient in underwater construction, sabotage and unarmed combat. Pick your men and start training soonest. Our squad must be ready by mid-July.’

  A wave of elation passed through Miro. So that’s what Simon’s men were doing night after night in the bay. There was no chance of Paddy seeing this one. The rockets could bring a quick end to the war and then perhaps he would find his parents. Miro put the memo carefully on the table and rifled through the rest of the file.

  ‘Two thousand German prisoners-of-war have been turned and have volunteered to join American forces in the forthcoming invasion,’ he read in a memo from ETOUSA headquarters to Captain Rose at the Mowbray camp. ‘They are being housed in a prewar holiday camp called Pines in a farming area not far from the New Forest. Most of them are highly trained troops,’ he read, ‘but some have volunteered for underwater training and Simon should visit Pines at his earliest convenience and organize the classes.’

  There was nothing else of value. Two thousand German POWs seemed like an excellent target for enemy bombers. He would have to change the venues, transfer the rocket station to the Pines and deliver the message verbally. Paddy could take it or leave it.

  Lately Paddy’s demands for more information were alarming him. It was always accompanied by threats to his parents. Finding news that satisfied him, while not actually harming the war effort, was becoming increasingly difficult. He was frightened most of the time, but he never forgot his mission: to send enough information to make his parents’ board and lodging seem worthwhile to the SS. Simon’s proximity, plus his careless handling of classified news, was a gift.

  Ten minutes later Simon was bobbing gently over the waves, holding his rod in one hand, a book in the other, while leaning back on a lilo he’d brought along. It was a lovely Sunday morning early in May. The air sparkled, the sea was calm, reflecting the blue sky and fluffy clouds hung around the horizon. There was only one thing missing and that was Helen. ‘Give her time,’ he muttered.

  By eleven he had a bucketful of codling and mackerel. He took the fish home and sat beside the stable tap scraping and gutting the fish until Helen came to find him. She managed a smile, which was a change.

  ‘That will do nicely for supper. Plenty for everyone. Well done. Fish and chips and salad. How’s that?’

  ‘Just right.’ He hated lying. The British penchant for chips with their fish was an on-going irritation to Simon, but anything that made Helen cheerful was OK with him right now.

  ‘I’m going to shower. Where’s Miro?’ he asked when he found Daisy alone in the kitchen, busy making a pie for dessert.

  ‘He popped out to see a friend.’

  You bet he did, Simon told himself with an ache. He went to his room to check the briefcase. This time, apart from a thin thread which had been snapped in his briefcase, there was nothing to show that anything had been touched. His onerous duty now was to wait for Miro to be trapped.

  It was noon, but it was almost dark. The frenzied wind sent low clouds racing across the sky, tore the petals off the late spring flowers and flung fistfuls of icy rain in the faces of the mourners. The stately procession following behind Eric’s coffin were blown into disarray as women clutched their hats and skirts, umbrellas turned upside down and coats flapped like wings. The mourners gathered around the newly dug grave as the Reverend Thomas recited the prayer for the dead, ‘Ashes to ashes . . .’

  Holding her wreath, Helen was gripped by sadness. She had loved Eric for seventeen years, but now he was dead, horribly murdered, but it was hard to find the tears to cry for him. Daisy was dry-eyed, too. In a way it was a relief for Daisy to know the truth. The funeral should bring closure to the agony of not knowing. I am Mrs Helen Conroy, she told herself. I shall bear my widowhood bravely and resolutely. I loved my husband until he abandoned us. From now on I shall continue to be the sensible, hardworking Helen Conroy.

  But she was not. Not any more. She was a stranger who quivered and shook at the sight of Simon, whose stomach churned when she heard his voice. At night she was filled with longing to be close to him, to touch him. For the first time Helen realized that her quick, incisive mind, her intellect, which she had always relied upon, was just a small part of her: a precarious minority rule over the emotional mass that made up the rest of her being. But not for long. She would force her body to obey her mind. She would not give in to lust.

  At that moment a sudden gust blew up the coat of the woman standing opposite. Her hat blew off and as she reached for it she dropped her bouquet into the grave. ‘To my beloved Eric,’ Helen read. Looking up she hardly recognized Eric’s pretty young secretary. Her hair hung limp around her face, her eyes were swollen from weeping and her breasts were leaking milk on to her dress. She must have travelled from Scotland for the funeral.

  Helen stared at the woman with morbid fascination. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the image of Eric’s blue eyes gleaming with pride as he told her of his love for his pregnant secretary, and how she made him feel young and alive. How she had hated this woman, but now she felt sorry for her. All her hatred had slipped away. She clenched her fists and hung on to her composure.

  Why had she come here? she wondered. Grieving for Eric was futile. He wasn’t hers. Had he ever really loved her? Could he love anyone, other than himself? For the first time she saw him as he really was: narcissistic and neurotic. He had deceived this young woman, just as he had deceived her when she was only eighteen and he was thirty. Why grieve? It was time to start again.

  ‘I’m going to work,’ she told Miro, handing him her wreath. ‘I should never have come. Look after Daisy. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Are you sure yo
u’ll be all right?’ His brown eyes were filled with caring as they linked with hers.

  ‘Of course.’

  She turned from the grave feeling as if a heavy burden had slipped from her shoulders.

  Twenty-One

  It was mid-June and a glorious summer day. Simon had the afternoon free and he and Helen were wandering through the wood looking for mushrooms. Hands in his pockets, Simon was hunched forward as if searching the ground, but he wasn’t; he was miles way, Helen knew, and his thoughts bothered him.

  ‘Whatever it is you are doing, I know it’s good, because you are a good person. You must stop worrying so much. Please believe me.’

  He turned looking puzzled and shocked, as if he thought she had read his mind.

  ‘Tell me, Helen, do you believe that the end justifies the means?’

  ‘Depends. I mean . . . sending a handful of men to their deaths in order to save a city . . . well, I suppose so, in wartime, if the end means saving vastly more people than you destroy, then yes. One strives towards . . .’ For a moment she was lost for words. ‘What do we strive for? Goodness? People? Love?’

  ‘But what if we’re striving to destroy an evil thing that has come amongst us and in so doing we destroy the very people that we love.’

  ‘Perhaps the people destined to be destroyed should have a say in the matter . . . what if they volunteer for this dangerous mission?’

  Instinctively she knew that Simon was heroic. He carried a torch, but for whom, or what, she had not discovered. His mind was all too often lost in another world.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Hardly anyone can think of nothing. That’s a very difficult thing to do. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m no good at meditating. You were working something out . . . or plotting your next move. Tell me about it.’

  ‘You think enough for both of us. I’m just coasting along.’

  He was up to something, but knowing Simon it could not be anything bad. She was as sure of Simon as she was of herself. What he needed, she decided, was love. We both need love, she thought. She reached out and took hold of his hand.

  Simon glanced at her and she read the surprise in his eyes. She flushed.

  ‘It’s almost a month since the funeral,’ she said. ‘I wish . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Go on,’

  ‘I wish to write off the past. I need closure and a new start. I wish I could mourn for longer. In fact, I wish I could have mourned, but I never did. I was in shock admittedly, but whatever I once felt had entirely gone.’

  ‘You’ve been punishing yourself for far too long. It was never your fault.’ They were walking through a copse of silver birch. As they followed the meandering path around a thicket of brambles and hawthorn, they found themselves in an open glade, and there was the folly squatting beside the cliff edge in all its oriental splendour.

  ‘Jesus! It’s bad enough from the bay, but from this angle it’s a monstrosity. Did John build it?’

  ‘No, his father. Owning a folly was all the rage in those days.’

  ‘I didn’t realize we had been walking in a semi-circle, or that we were so close to the cliffs. Did you?’

  She flushed. ‘Well, of course I know the woods very well. I played here all my childhood. I used to think that this was my own private house.’

  He glanced at her suspiciously and then he laughed. ‘So we haven’t stumbled upon the folly by mistake. We’ve been making for it via a circuitous route and I’ve been duped, thinking that we needed the mushrooms.’

  She ignored his gibe. ‘It’s bound to be full of spiders and dust.’ Opening the door, she stepped inside.

  ‘Someone’s been cleaning up around here. What a devious woman you are. How long have you been planning this seduction scenario?’

  ‘Couple of weeks I suppose, but we keep it clean anyway.’

  ‘Lucky me.’ He took her into his arms. ‘I’ve been longing for the chance to show you just how much I can love you on a day-to-day basis.’ He bent down and brushed his lips over her shoulder and became suffused with longing.

  Helen sensed that his body was awakening with more than just an urge for sex. Much more. He ached to feel joy again, as she did, and to feel close to each other, to have the right to make love and to plan for the future. Her love would always be safe with him.

  Time is a voyeur with an eye for the dramatic. Beguiled by pleasure or pain, it cannot tear itself away, but hangs around bolt-eyed, spiraling that one moment into a timeless zone. Or so it seemed to Helen.

  Friends noticed Helen’s sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, but no one suspected a lover. As a GI billeted upon them, and there were so many, Simon’s presence was taken for granted.

  Mornings, they met up while riding to the beach. Some evenings he brought a bottle of wine to share while they watched the sun set behind the furthest bay along the coast, which they could see from the folly. They enjoyed the same music and art so they often met up at concerts and occasionally the theatre. Simon often passed by the canteen around eleven when Helen locked up. Then they would toss her bicycle into the back and drive home together. All these seemingly accidental meetings kept idle tongues at bay, or so they imagined.

  If Simon was home late, he would creep in, shed his clothes and climb softly into bed; but she was a light sleeper, when she felt his naked body against hers she would catch hold of him and pull him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and pushing her lips on to his. She liked to sleep in Simon’s room because it was downstairs and away from the children. But that was not the only reason. Simon had a single bed and so they lay very close, turning in unison, sharing their breath and their warmth. Even their heartbeats seemed synchronized.

  This is not me, she told herself. What is happening to me?

  The summer was ripening along with the plums and apples in the orchard, it rained most days and the gardens were muddy and damp, but Helen saw the beauty of the morning mist drifting amongst the trees, and noticed how the branches of the silver birches glistened against a backdrop of purple skies. She collected chestnuts and roasted them on the stove for the family, made blackberry pie, baked milk tart, rice puddings and recipes she learned from her mother. There was always mulled wine and supper warming on the stove, however late Simon was.

  She loved him, and those who were close to her said nothing, because they loved her. She sang in the car, hummed as she worked, smiled at everyone and saw beauty in commonplace objects.

  She gloated over her prize. How did she get so lucky? Her life had been spent waiting for him to appear. Her body was not her own. It was shared. Simon set his seal upon her flesh: a bite mark on her neck, a bruised nipple, swollen lips. She was beginning to look as if a piranha swam in her bed. She took to wearing darker lipstick and scarves.

  British troops were having it easy for the time being, so Helen couldn’t understand why her friend May from the factory was being so remote and curt, replying in monosyllables and seemingly in a world of her own.

  ‘May, what’s wrong?’ Helen asked her one morning whilst they were taking a break in the canteen.

  ‘Nothing, really. I’m just a bit depressed, for no good reason.’

  ‘But why? We’re winning the war . . . slowly, but surely.’

  ‘Yes, but Reg is in the Eighth Army. I guess he’ll be in the thick of the fight again. He can’t be lucky forever. Every time I see the postman my stomach turns. He’s endured thirteen months of fighting in the desert. He hasn’t got nine lives. I just feel that it’s too much.’

  ‘Where is Reg now?’

  ‘In the Eighth Army. That’s all I know.’ A sudden cold front seemed to have penetrated the factory.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right, May. You mustn’t anticipate the worst that could happen. You’re not psychic. Be positive.’ Helen said. ‘Most of our soldiers will come home.’ May nodded and tried to smile, but Helen read sadness in her hunched, slender sho
ulders. Cycling home she remembered how full of fun May used to be. She’d kept them all laughing with her jokes and stories. Maybe her separation from Reg had been much too long. If so, she wasn’t any different to most other women in England. Their husbands were seldom home on leave and then only for short periods. She, too, would suffer when the troops invaded France. Helen could not help admiring May’s courage, but there were dark shadows under her eyes and her skin looked drab.

  By contrast, Helen was so happy she felt guilty and scared. Nothing lasts, she reminded herself.

  ‘Do you love me?’ Simon asked one morning.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it,’ she answered evasively.

  The question remained in her head like a tune you can’t stop humming. She loved his lips, so soft, sensitive and expressive, she was his harmonica, emitting sighs and gasps in place of melodies. She loved his shoulders, muscled yet comfortable, where her head lay, and the salty taste of his skin. Exploring his body with her mind obsessed her when she cycled to work. She loved the musky smell of him after sex, and the way his expression softened with caring when he looked at her. So many different kinds of love, focused on every part of his being.

  Was that love?

  The following week May called to tell her the news: the dreaded telegram had arrived. Reg had been killed in a road accident. She would be absent on sick leave for a week, she explained. Helen sent flowers and gifts, and called daily. She longed to be May’s friend outside the factory, but May resisted all her advances.

  ‘Give up Helen. You can’t mix oil and water,’ May said finally. ‘Different income, different backgrounds, different tastes . . . it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘You’re so wrong, May. This war and the American occupation will put paid to class divisions in England.’

  ‘It’ll take more than the Yanks to do that,’ May said. Her call terminated with an impersonal click.

  Damn you, May, Helen fumed to herself. How can England ever become a strong and united nation, if we can’t throw off divisions of class that are straight-jacketing all of us, even in wartime?