War Brides

by Helen Bryan

  “Ridiculous!”

  “It wasn’t till today I knew what you’d done. I worked it out from something my grandson said. Those long pools in the water garden. Your father built them to German plans so the Germans could navigate by them.”

  “Nonsense! How on earth could you navigate on a little bit of water?”

  “A little bit is all that’s needed. On a clear night water reflects light, especially moonlight. Those long, narrow pools pointed the way for the German planes. And you were the one sending weather reports so they’d know when the weather would be clear. It was you who helped guide them to London for the blitz. And you were ready to help them when they signalled the invasion.”

  Sir Hugo’s eyes narrowed.

  “Meanwhile Frances was bored with being a Land Girl, and her father’s friends agreed she could train as an English resistance agent, but they decided to send her back to Crowmarsh Priors with instructions to watch you and your father.”

  Alice stepped closer and Sir Hugo fell back a pace. “The net was closing round you, wasn’t it? Traitors and spies were shot. By then the German money was long gone and Frances wouldn’t marry you. You thought the reason was that she was sweet on Oliver Hammet, so you started watching the church, to see how often she was there. But you needed something else to sell to the Germans, and watching the vicarage you discovered what we were doing, and you remembered the smugglers’ tunnels, the ones I’d told you about the time I lunched at Gracecourt. It was before the war. Lady Marchmont dragged me along. I had too much sherry and started babbling like I always did because I never knew what to say to men. You were a terribly polite listener,” said Alice, “and kept asking me questions. I told you all about it, reminding you that the de Balforts had had a hand in the smuggling, and that there was a tunnel to the coast that could be entered from the churchyard.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “You knew that a secret way into the country would be invaluable information for the Germans, and you bided your time to sell it. And then your father was determined you should marry Frances, and made you feel inadequate because you couldn’t persuade her. He taunted you that she preferred the vicar so before you sold them the location of the tunnel, you persuaded your German friends to jettison a bomb over the vicarage to eliminate your rival. But they bombed the church and churchyard instead, the same night we were waiting for a rescue party to arrive with two children smuggled from France. Tanni’s sisters.”

  Alice suddenly realized what this information would do to Tanni and stopped. Elsie and Evangeline looked horrified. But Tanni, looking white and shocked, said in a shaking voice, “No…I have always known there was something about that night, something very terrible…I remember, we had a plan, we tried to save them. We tried to save Lili and Klara…but…”

  “Tanni…

  “We tried…there was no other way. We had to take the chance.”

  “Tanni…”

  “It’s better, I know, at last, I must see this through to the end,” said Tanni. Her voice was strangely calm. “Frances tried to save them. She was determined not to let them down. She used her jewelry…”

  “It was a long time ago.” Sir Hugo’s voice had sunk to a whisper.

  Elsie took over. “Frances had been watching Gracecourt for some time. She went back to Gracecourt shortly before she disappeared, found your father alone, she thought, and forced the truth out of him, that Gracecourt was the center of a British Nazi network. He taunted her that the Nazis would come soon enough, that England would have to surrender. You were hiding and overheard, but Frances was armed and you could do nothing. We don’t know what happened next or how the fire started, though people say there was an explosion and Frances had access to sticky bombs. They didn’t expect you to live. But you did and when you recovered, Frances had disappeared. You had heard enough from Frances to suspect she was an agent. And you sent word to your Nazi friends the same way you sent them weather reports. Somehow you learned she had been sent to France.”

  “Information is never secret, even in wartime, and our supporters were at all levels of the government here.” Hugo said contemptuously.

  “When you got out of hospital you sent the Germans her description,” Alice went on, “and told them she was working for Military Intelligence, was probably in France…”

  Sir Hugo looked directly at her. “The little fool! She should have married me when I asked her,” he hissed. “Father practically begged her. I offered her a chance. The de Balfort name would have reached new glory. The German scientists had nearly perfected their genetic experiments…” His eyes glittered. “A new age was coming, but now—” He made a terrible noise, half sob, half shout. “We must wait for another Hitler to rise from the ashes of the Aryan dream like a phoenix.”

  The four old ladies had backed him against the tomb. “I was convinced she would have been sent to eastern France. We knew that many of the SOE circuits had been broken up and their agents arrested there. The British sent replacements, and as I suspected, Frances was one of them. The Germans found her in 1945—February, near Ardennes. They sent me a message. She was discovered hiding in a maternity hospital, posing as a Frenchwoman who had just given birth. Normally they would have sent her to a prison camp and tortured information out of her. But with the Allies approaching they shot her instead. A clean German bullet. I imagine at the last she regretted everything.”

  The four old women surrounded Sir Hugo. Then Elsie raised her cane and hit Hugo as hard as she could. Tanni struck him from behind. Evangeline hit hard across his knees and Alice brought hers down on his head. There was a crack and he stumbled and fell to the ground. In fury they hit and prodded him with all their strength. The old man curled into a ball, trying to escape the sticks. He fought back until he hit his head on the tomb and lay stunned.

  They looked down with loathing at him.

  “Oh, Frances,” said Alice, breathing hard, “to think of your being shot like a dog!”

  “For Mum and Jem and Violet and all the others you helped to kill,” panted Elsie, swinging her cane again.

  “My parents, Frau Zayman, Lili and Klara, may they rest in peace,” said Tanni, breathless and weeping, but wielding her cane. “And…the camps, all the innocent people, all the deaths…and…and…I remember now!” she cried. “I had a baby, and it died…that night! I always knew it was something horrible, but I could never remember what. Oh, God!”

  “Richard’s convoy,” said Evangeline, swinging her cane like a woman possessed. “Richard! He suffered, for twenty years I watched him suffer!”

  “Frances!” said Alice. “My poor mother! You helped kill them all, you evil fiend!”

  Evangeline ordered, “Push him in the tunnel and leave him!”

  “No, no no,” he wailed feebly, covered in blood and cowering.

  “Push him in! It’s what he deserves!”

  Alice tottered backward. She twisted the skull at the side of the tomb and the hinge swung open.

  “Quick,” said Elsie, puffing. They all bent to push and roll him into the entrance beneath the lopsided knight. There was just room in the dark, narrow space. The old man fought back, scrabbling at the ground, but he was no match for their combined strength and fury.

  There was a cry from the huddled figure as it disappeared into the black hole. Then something thudded at the bottom of the narrow steps. Alice swung the door shut. After all the years they had waited, it had been almost too easy. The four old ladies bent over their canes, breathing hard.

  Tanni was now sobbing and moaning incoherently. Evangeline put her arms round her. “Bruno tried to protect you, you know. He loves you very much.”

  “Bernie’s lawyers said there was never a chance of putting him in jail,” wheezed Elsie. “We agreed he should pay,” she said, looking at the others for confirmation. “We agreed?” The others nodded and smoothed their clothes. “We’ll go back now.”

  “I wonder,” said Alice as they went, “what happened to Franc
es’s baby?”

  “You know, when I said we should look for the dad, Bernie got that ferrety look that always made me suspect something, but he said maybe Frances wanted that to be a secret,” said Elsie, leading the way. “For an awful moment I thought to meself, ‘surely it’s not Bernie!’ but he saw the look and said no, before I could even ask him. Then he said something else about how you had to keep promises, if that was the last thing you were asked. I don’t know what he meant.”

  “I do,” said Evangeline. “And I’ll tell you. But I need to sit down before I do.”

  “Great shot,” muttered Katie to the cameraman, spotting the four ladies walking slowly toward them from the church. Obviously tired, poor old things, especially Mrs. Zayman, and looking their age in the twilight. Dishevelled too, like the day had been too much for them. “Let’s close with a shot of them and then the fireworks,” she said as a loud bang filled the sky with sparkles.

  She raised her microphone. “Do you ladies have any final words for the viewers?”

  “No, dear, we were just talking about war crimes. A bit tired now, I think. Excuse us. We’re just going to sit down and be quiet for a moment, away from everybody.”

  “Oh,” said Katie, not sure whether to pursue them.

  “Get ready to wind up,” said Simon.

  The microphone picked up the voice of the old man in the Home Guard uniform wailing loudly that he wanted another pint; he didn’t want to go home yet. He was saying to no one in particular, “There’s only four. One’s missing.”

  “Who’s missing, Granddad?”

  “The one married the parson—Oliver…what was his name? I were a witness. Sudden, it was, in Tunbridge, church there. Bernie drove us. Oliver said something about a husband can’t testify against his wife. Bernie laughed and said was Frances planning on becoming a safecracker then? Oliver told him sometimes you took things and people on faith, but he was lookin’ at Frances when he said it. Bernie and me was sworn to secrecy, not to ever tell anyone, not Elsie or Nell or nobody. They looked happy as Larry when it were over. Then they carried on in the village like nothing had happened, Frances kept coming and going, then she was gone for good. Left a letter with me for Oliver, told me to look after him if she didn’t come back. Nell saw her before she disappeared and said if she hadn’t known Frances wasn’t married she would have sworn she was in the family way. Said you could always tell. ’Course, bein’ sworn to secrecy I couldn’t say anything…”

  “What a story Granddad! What happened to her?”

  “Don’t remember, except we never saw her again after the last time. I finally gave him the letter, but he never said what was in it. Died a few days later, funnily enough. Turned out he had a dickey heart, poor chap. Nobody knew, he looked right as rain. Died in ’forty-six or ’forty-seven. Nell said…well, it were a long time ago. Long time ago.”

  The barbeques had turned to ash. The sun was setting and the caterers were rattling empty bowls, trays, and bottles back into their vans. The flowers drooped and the overexcited children with ice cream on their faces were handed Union Jacks to wave in the background while Katie signed off and the credits rolled. The war brides posed with the vicar while the local paper snapped a picture. Fireworks exploded festively across the village.

  “It’s been a memorable day. And that’s it from me, Katie Hamilton-Jones for Albion Television. As we end this special edition of Heart of England, we hope you’ve enjoyed being with us at this special and poignant memorial celebration. We’ve heard mostly from the older generation today—let’s let the next generation have the last word.”

  The camera panned to a mob of children bobbing in the background behind her, clutching ice creams and Union Jacks. “Have you all had a lovely day?”

  Behind her the children jumped up and down and waved their flags frantically and shouted, “Yes!”

  The credits rolled.

  EPILOGUE

  London, 12 May 1995,

  Missing Persons’ Helpline

  “Missing Persons’ Helpline, Lily speaking. Can I help you? Yes, let me get a form. There we go. Now I need some information from you. Name of the person missing? Sir Hugo de Balfort. Address? Thank you. Age? Eighty-five or so you think…No, that will do. And the last time you saw him? At breakfast in the bungalow…Where and when did he go missing? Never came back from a VE Day celebration near his home in—where was that? Spell Crowmarsh Priors for me. On the Saturday, was it? Yes, a lot of places celebrated over the weekend.”

  “And you are?…Miss Pomfret. Annie Pomfret. Housekeeper. Any family? No, right. Did he seem confused, Miss Pomfret? Does he need any medication that you know of? No, I appreciate you don’t snoop in his medicine cabinet, but sometimes people are more observant than they realize. Would there be a photo of him you could send us? I do understand that you don’t feel it’s your place to make free with his possessions, but if we’re to put out a bulletin, the public will need to know what Sir Hugo looks like. And your contact telephone? I quite understand your sister does not wish to be rung at all hours.

  “Miss Pomfret, we do work closely with the police, but unless you’ve any reason to suspect foul play…yes, we’ll put out a bulletin right away. Usually elderly people are simply confused and wander off, we find them safe and sound and only lost because they’ve forgotten where they’re supposed to be…Yes, we’ll do our best. Thank you, Miss Pomfret. Try not to worry. We’ll be in touch as soon as possible, when we know something. Good-bye.”

  Lily hung up, put the completed form in her out tray and stretched. “That’s the fourteenth elderly person who went missing last weekend,” she said to her coworker. “Good thing the weather’s been warm, and they’ve all been located. Did I tell you they finally found the old lady from Herne Hill sitting behind an old air raid shelter? There was a VE day flypast and it triggered old memories. She was convinced she was back in the Blitz and the siren had gone. She was waiting for the shelter to open.”

  “They’ve gone overboard with this VE thing,” said her colleague. “I mean, my grandfather says he’s been through it once and he’s not keen to relive it. He was in Italy and then the Normandy landings. He and my gran took their holiday to get away from it all—went to Florida. Your family in the war, Lily?”

  “On my dad’s side they were Quakers and conscientious objectors, so my granddad was a medic. Don’t know much about Mum’s side in the war.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Don’t know that much about Mum’s side at all, really. My grandmother’s dead now so I can’t ask her, but she and her twin sister were raised by a foster family in Manchester. We never knew where they came from or who their family were, but there was some mystery about them. They both spoke French and German, even the twin, who was brain-damaged or something. According to my mother, her mother remembered a big house with a pink bedroom where a girl who might have been her sister or their nanny read stories to them. She remembered being on a train with other children and a farm and some old people and then men talking in the dark, and my grandmother being terrified that what she called ‘the bad men’ were going to kill her and her sister.

  “Years after the war was over, her foster mother finally told her that one night a serviceman with a big duffel bag came knocking on their door to ask if he was in a Jewish neighborhood. He thought it was, because he’d lived in Manchester before the war. They’d thought he was looking for lodging, and as they had an extra room they let him in. Instead he told them some story about being shot down in France and being rescued back to England. Then he put his duffel bag on the floor, opened it, and there were two little girls asleep inside. ‘Jewish kiddies,’ he said and disappeared before they could ask him more. Strange, isn’t it.

  “All the girls knew were their names. My grandmother said that she and her sister remembered hearing the couple argue in English, which they didn’t understand. The woman made them put on black dresses and thick stockings and they were told not to say anything in the streets. T
hey were used to keeping quiet so it didn’t seem strange at the time, any more than the fact it was evidently one of those really religious Jewish neighborhoods, with kosher butchers and men in frock coats and side curls. I think so much had happened to them that they just accepted it. But as my mum says, who knows?”

  “What a story!”

  “I know. When my grandmother married, my great-aunt went to live with her but she died young, when Mum was about nine. My mum said she looked exactly like my grandmother and they were both really pretty, only my grandmother was clever and did a university degree after she married, then became a teacher like her husband. My mother remembers her great-aunt being very sweet and gentle and looking after her while my grandmother went to classes. She said my grandmother never got over her death. I’m called Lily after her.”

  “Amazing! I guess there must be a lot of stories about the war that you never hear. Someone ought to write about it. ’Scuse me, Lils, there goes the phone again. No, you’re due for your tea break. I’ll get this one. Hope your wandering old man turns up OK.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An author’s manuscript is one thing; its transition to a finished book on the shelf is another. The devil is in the detail, and I am grateful to everyone who has contributed to the transformation of War Brides from the former into the latter. As an author, I am fortunate to have worked with them all.

  First of all, thanks are due to Terry Goodman, Senior Editor at Amazon Publishing, who first approached me via an irresistibly charming email to say that Amazon would like to publish my book, who has been available ever since as a point of contact to deal with any queries, and who has kept everything on track, making sure that everything that was supposed to happen to get the book out on schedule happened smoothly.

  It has been a pleasure to work with the entire Amazon team. I especially want to thank the copyeditor Renee Johnson for her painstaking and thorough editing that transformed the earlier manuscript into a polished book. She is the kind of copyeditor every author wants—her eagle eye misses nothing.