by Mary Wood
She froze. He doesn’t believe me!
A knock on the door and an officer entering gave her a moment’s respite from the uncomfortable glare of his scrutiny. His voice rose angrily as he addressed the officer, ‘Ich sagte, ich war nicht gestört warden!’ From the way he spoke, she guessed he’d said he had given orders not to be disturbed. The officer apologizing and handing him a note further seemed to anger him. ‘Schweine!’
That, she did understand. Someone had done something to really provoke him. He’d called them ‘pigs!’
‘Something has happened that takes my attention away from you, but you remain a mystery to me, mademoiselle. We will dine together this evening and you will tell me more about yourself. We will meet at eight in the only restaurant this town possesses, La Cuisine des Romarins, but it is good. Cooking is the only thing I can credit the French with. Till tonight, then?’
Again he clipped his heels. The relief in her was so strong that she trembled. He didn’t miss it.
‘You seem nervous. Is the prospect of dining with me abhorrent to you?’
Not sure what made her do so she answered him with defiance: ‘Do I have a choice? No, and it is that that makes me nervous. If I had a choice I would choose to dine with you, so then I would anticipate the evening.’
‘Ah, refreshing indeed, or once more a very clever ploy. I do not know as yet, but I will find out, Mademoiselle Danchanté. I will find out.’
Going through the door with her back to him and him close behind her, she had a sense of having lost ground. It wasn’t often she couldn’t get the measure of a man, and it had never occurred before that she hadn’t won them over. She’d thought her remark would have gone some way towards that, but it clearly hadn’t. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach increased.
Outside, chaos had descended. An ambulance raced out of the gates, orders were barked, and soldiers ran in all directions. When she arrived back at the bakery, she found out the reason.
‘Pierre organized a distraction. There is a farm on the perimeter, from which the old farmer can see miles along the road. Pierre telephoned him and asked him if anything was happening. He said he could see three motorbikes approaching in the distance. Pierre arranged for the riders to be shot at by a sniper. One dead, the other two injured. But one of them not so badly that he could not get back to the garrison to raise the alarm. He did it to help you.’
‘After having set me up in the first place! What is this, monsieur? What is the real plan for me here? My remit is to work with Pierre in facilitating messages via a code to England, and to arrange for the needs of the group – supplies and ammunition. And to do anything else that is asked of me that would further . . . That’s it, isn’t it? The “anything else” includes fraternizing, doesn’t it?’
‘No, it does not, but we knew it was possible you would come to the attention of Herr Gunter if you were attractive. He cannot resist. He is more French in that way than I am! But we thought we could handle that. We thought . . .’
‘Did Command in England agree to this?’
‘They said you would do what was asked of you.’
Fuck Derwent!
‘I won’t do it! Contact Pierre again. I must get out of here, now. I will send a distress code. They will arrange to pick me up.’
‘But Mademoiselle Olivia, we will be in grave danger.’
‘No, you won’t. Tell them you sent me to an aunt.’
‘They won’t believe it. They will kill us . . .’ Tears of distress ran down Madame Ponté’s face. ‘Please . . .’
The atmosphere held a tension that was fraught with emotion. Pierre stood away from her, and yet it seemed he held her. ‘I do not want this for you. We did know it could happen, and as soon as I saw you I knew it would.’
They were in her room. The door at the bottom of the stairs led into the garden. Pierre had crossed the garden from his lodgings and come straight up to her on his return from work.
‘I – I didn’t realize how much it would matter to me. I don’t want you to go.’
‘Oh, Pierre. This puts me in grave danger. Herr Gunter is crafty. He talks in smooth tones and then comes out with a question you least expect.’ She told him how the interview had gone. ‘If I go to dinner, I’ll have to go further . . .’
‘Non! Je ne peux pas le supporter!’
‘I cannot bear it either, but what choice do I haver Command at home knowing about this possibility sickens me. The danger to our operation and to myself has increased to disastrous proportions.’ Her body sank down onto the bed. Pierre was by her side in an instant. His arm came round her. She leaned into him. Her senses drank in the smell of him, the feel of his strong body, the brushing of his breath on her hair. His lips found her forehead, touched lightly on her closed eyes, then drew everything that was her into his kiss. They swayed backwards. The bed took them like a welcoming lover. Her pulse throbbed feelings around her that she’d never experienced. This was love – not uncomplicated, but good, clean, sensational love. Clean of sin, clean of predatory lust and clean of all that was unnatural – a love like none she’d ever known. And she wanted it. Needed it. The feel of his hands caressing every part of her fed her very soul with that need. Nothing before had touched the depths of her as this kiss did. She thirsted for it, consumed it . . . wanted more. She arched her body towards his, meeting the urgent need in him that pressed the hardness of him against her.
The peeling off of her knickers didn’t distract them. Pierre did this as if they were a veil draped over her, making the sensation of them passing over the heart of her sexuality like the caress of a lover’s hand. She did the same for him, sliding his trousers down in a gentle, loving way and stroking him as soon as he was released. His eyes held love as he gently laid her down. His entering of her sealed everything she was – the Theresa of now, the Theresa who had nothing to do with the woman she’d been. The Theresa ready to love the love of a million generations with passion, with adoration and with commitment. Together they rode to the height this love can give. Together they hollered out this love until the room filled with the reverberated echoes of it. Together they sealed this love with the searing ecstasy of reaching the pinnacle of sensation. And together they lay still, their bodies aching with this love. Binding them for ever to each other.
After a long moment, he released her and pulled from her. His body stayed close. His kisses tingled on every part of her face. ‘Ma chérie. Je t’ai trouvée, mon autre moitié.’
‘Yes, I am found. You have found me and I have found you. The other half of my soul.’
His eyes glistened with tears. They matched hers. He held her gaze. After a moment the touch of his nose on hers in a gesture of finality had him turning away and reaching for his cigarettes. The second held a moment of loss for her, but every moment had to end. This one ended with the promise of a lifetime together to come.
Smoke curled up into the space above them that had held their cries of joy as they both exhaled at the same time. The taste of the rasping of the tobacco on her throat tingled a satisfying sensation for her. She’d inhaled deeply. As she did, it came to her that no words had been uttered of love until after, when he’d simply said, ‘My darling, the other half of myself, I have found you.’ But somehow they spoke more deeply to her than if he had said ‘I love you’.
It took another moment or two for them to descend to a place where they could talk. They did so without having to go over how they felt. In a quiet tone, Pierre said, ‘How can we get you out of this mess we have got you into? I am mortified. I cannot bear you to be in danger and I cannot think of him . . . NO! It will not happen!’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I will kill him.’
‘Oh, God! Pierre, no. No, the reprisal will be too much to take. The town will suffer, everyone . . .’
‘Then we must get you and the Pontés away from here. We have to act fast. It must look like they have fled with you. Everyone will say how devastated Monsieur Ponté was at
bringing you here to look after you as a father would, only to have brought you to where you may be forced to fraternize. Come, get dressed and gather your things. I will tell the Pontés. It is our only hope.’
‘Will we go far away? What about our work?’
‘I have an uncle who lives up in the mountains – my mother’s brother. He lives in a remote place that the Germans probably don’t know exists, and have no need to, as it’s of no use to them strategically. The road to it goes nowhere, but because it is on a mountainside, we often use it to send messages from. It always has a good signal and one that cannot be detected down here. He has goats, herds and herds of goats, and is always away with them, travelling as a shepherd. His wife is no longer with us and they have no children. We have access to his place. I will move you all in there. You will be safe. I will visit you and you will be able to carry out the work you came here to do.’
‘What if the Pontés don’t agree? What if Command don’t agree? And I don’t think they will somehow. The more I think of it the more I am sure they wanted me to prostitute myself.’
‘They did not indicate that. They said you would be able to handle the situation. It is a situation all over France, which most of the female agents will come across. They said you would handle it how you saw fit. Anyway, why would they think you would?’
‘I – I have . . .’
‘Don’t, not now. I know that you were married for a brief time. I know you were not a virgin. If you have had affairs, it is something for only you to know. I just know you as you are now, and that is how it will stay. And as for Command, they will see this move as us limiting the danger for you. The Pontés . . . well, they will be sad to leave here, but they know they will be in grave danger if they don’t.’
Thank God for Frenchmen! The thought felt a little trite, but she hadn’t meant it to. It was a difference that could be defined between a Frenchman and an English one, this acceptance of the body, male or female, needing to have sex. That was it in its simplicity. They accepted it without question. The English did it, but caused scandal and heartbreak, and ruined reputations. Yes, thank God for the French way of thinking. She wouldn’t be called upon to account for her actions in the past, or even to confess them. They could stay in the part of her where she held her secrets. For a moment those secrets prickled as if demanding release, but she closed them down and got on with the practicalities of their move.
They left soon after. Monsieur Ponté left first with the van. Inside he had trays of bread for delivery to the restaurant and the local school – deliveries he always did in the evening. Everything had to appear normal. Madame Ponté and Theresa left soon after with Pierre.
After passing through Pierre’s lodgings, where they left some of the things for him and others to bring up at a later date, they cycled for two hours. Madame Ponté cried the whole time, and would not be consoled. Theresa understood this. It wasn’t every day that you fled what had been your whole and only way of life. Madame’s father had owned the bakery, and she had been born in the house. Her husband had come as an apprentice and stayed, married her and taken the business over on the death of her parents. What was happening now was devastating for her. ‘I’m sorry, Madame Ponté. I feel terrible that I have brought this down on you.’
Pierre stopped any answer she may have given, ‘It isn’t you, Olivia. It is the war, and the bloody Germans. Everybody’s lives have changed. Life as we knew it is being eroded. My own parents have had to move. My country is occupied and no longer open to us. We are refugees, all of us. All we can do is fight back – to help the British in their stance. And we have to win. We have to.’
‘How often do you usually come up here, Pierre? Will your comings and goings not be noticed?’
‘I hope not. I have to break the curfew to get up here, but I will get messages to you. Once you make contact with Command and give them your new location, I will need you to make calls to them. But you will need to travel around too. There are people we need to make contact with. I cannot travel easily in the day, but you can. There are only a handful of Germans who know your face. There is a factory that is involved in making parts for U-boats. The next project we have to undertake is to disable it. We will have to blow it up. The man I need you to contact is an expert. You will have to travel to Paris to meet him. He will tell you what you need to ask for from Command, and how and where to place it. You will have to make all arrangements for the drop.’
As they sat on the side of the road waiting for Monsieur Ponté to arrive to take them the rest of the way in his van, Pierre outlined more of the mission. ‘There is a portable radio for you to take with you. It is an ingenious device. It looks like a make-up bag, but each lipstick, powder puff, cream jar, et cetera, is made of papier mâché and contains pieces of a radio. You will learn how to put it together so that you can make contact wherever you are. The aerial is disguised in a belt.’
‘I am familiar with the technique. When will I leave?’
‘The day after tomorrow. I want you to contact Command the moment we get into my uncle’s house, then we will go through everything. Your route, your cover – everything.’
‘Pierre, how were you going to get me out of the bakery to do this kind of mission?’
‘The story would have been that you were taken ill suddenly and your uncle had taken you to the hospital and they had kept you in. It would not have worked now that you were spotted and taken note of so soon. The Germans are already suspicious of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the people you came into contact with at the garrison today wasn’t an artist and has by now made an impression of you to circulate if need be. You must proceed with the utmost care. Tonight we will bleach your hair.’
This shocked her, even though it had been part of their training to effect disguises. Using peroxide on your hair was only one of the techniques. Appearance in general was vital. The small details were very important, as the Gestapo were trained to spot giveaway signs. If you were meant to be a factory worker, you had to make sure every bit of you fitted with that, even down to grime under your nails and ground into your hands.
‘Pierre, how long can you stay?’
‘Tonight I will stay all night, ma chérie. Tonight we will make love under the stars.’
This to a background of Madame Ponté’s sobs seemed wrong, but was still exciting and wondrous.
Sated beyond anything she’d ever known, she lay in Pierre’s arms. The moon shone through the window and lit their bed. His beautiful body glistened with sweat as his chest rose and fell in a breathless way. ‘You’re beautiful, Olivia . . . “Tu es le souffle de mon corps. Le sang qui coule dans mes veines et la vie dans mon coeur.” You are the breath in my body. The blood that courses through my veins and the life inside my heart.’
‘That is beautiful. I will remember it for ever.’
‘We will get out of this, Olivia. And maybe I will always call you that, as that is who you are to me.’
She liked this. It gave her a clean slate. A new beginning.
1963
Despite extreme tiredness, and at times having to fight to keep her eyes open, when Lizzie finally closed the book, light poured through the one porthole above her. Warming rays of the sun touched her face. Her stiff limbs protested when she tried to manoeuvre them into a sitting position. Each intake of breath rasped the soreness in her parched throat, and once more she needed the bathroom with an urgency that set a pain in her stomach. Her attempt to call out resulted in a croaked whisper. Despair entered her. She tried to combat it by thinking about what she’d just read. The love between Theresa and Pierre . . . oh, how she longed for such a love for herself! But this time thinking of Theresa’s bravery, and now her love, didn’t help. Lying back down caused a tear to trickle into her ear. Please, God, let someone find me soon. But then, was there anyone looking?
Fifteen
Harri’s Heart is Rocked
1963
It didn’t seem real, looking at Pats
y. Vibrant, vivacious Patsy, lying so still. So pale. Her ugly, blue-black bruising stark against her pallor, her skin torn and her eyelids swollen and bulging.
Harri stood like a statue. If she moved, if she touched Patsy, she would have to accept that it was her. Her dad’s voice, whispering and anxious, came to her, asking questions of Patsy’s doctor. He was using medical terms she wished she didn’t understand. Patsy had a fragile hold on a frayed cord to life. It could snap at any moment and she would be gone. They could do nothing more than they had done for her. It was up to God and Patsy’s will to live they said.
How could God have had a hand in this? To her mind he’d turned his face away and left Patsy alone to face the horror.
Someone walking his dog along the towpath had heard a splash – well, two splashes, and then agonized screams. He’d seen a boat. Shining his torch on the water, the ominous ripples told of something alive writhing about under the surface. Diving in, he’d thrashed about, searching in desperation around him. Someone had grabbed his feet. The weight of them had pulled him under. In the blackness he’d touched what felt like a sack. Wrestling with the grasp of the arms, something slashed his face, then he’d felt the solid steel of what could only be a knife. Grasping it, he’d slashed at the sacking. The body had been freed and they’d floated to the top. The man lay in a cubicle a few feet away. She wanted to go to him, to thank him, but her legs wouldn’t take her anywhere.
Ian stepped forward. She wanted to stop him. It seemed like an intrusion. He bent over Patsy. A tear plopped from him and landed on Patsy’s face. A trickle of clear fluid hung from his nose. He wiped it. Then bent nearer to Patsy. ‘Don’t go. Patsy, don’t go, please . . .’
Mam moved for the first time from the cocoon of the frozen scene and put her arm over Ian’s shoulder. Her face was hard to read. She held it like stone, not letting in the hurt.
The others had been in, but were now in the family room – the room in which she knew you waited for news. Rarely good news. She wasn’t going in there to wait. If she stood here she could know, not wait.
