Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  The tea didn’t steady her. It only made the turmoil in her stomach worse as she vomited, choking on the remnants of the bile left in her throat.

  ‘Eeh, love. Come on, now. Let it all out. Don’t worry about owt. Stuff can be cleaned up. You’re the main thing. You’ve had a lot to contend with. Your life’s changed in such a short span of time.’

  After a moment she controlled the retching spasm. ‘Thanks, Sarah, I’m sorry, it was such a shock even though I’ve been expecting it.’

  ‘Aye, there was no easy way to tell you. Let me get this lot off you and I’ll bring you some water to drink to clear the taste from your mouth. Then we’ll see about cleaning you up, eh? Eeh, lass, you’ve a lot coming at you, but we’re with you every step of the way. I promise we’ll be with you.’

  This brought a comfort into her and as she had done before she thought, how was it that there were such people as Sarah and Richard in a world that mostly seemed to hold bad people? She’d never met anyone in her life like them before, but she was glad she had now, when she most needed them.

  Twenty-eight

  Lizzie and Theresa

  1963 and 1944

  Back out in the garden, where she’d asked Sarah to take her after she’d helped her to wash and change her clothes, Lizzie sat a moment thinking of Ken and Rita. She missed them, and yet in another way she felt a release from them, because between them they had shackled her – one with his obsession and the other with a weird kind of love. Rita’s love for her was sometimes like that of a mother, but at other times it was conditional, and when those conditions weren’t met, all hell would break loose. She was better off without them, and yet she felt so lost. Back then was familiar. They weren’t good times, but they were her times, her surroundings, her way of life, her family . . .

  Sarah had told her that Rita’s body was to be released, and that they didn’t think they would need to hold Ken’s for long. An autopsy to determine that his death fitted with their stories would take place this afternoon, then they could have the body in a couple of days. Richard had already found an undertaker willing to fetch the bodies from the morgue and take them to the crematorium nearby. It was just a matter of when and if she wanted to attend and have a service for them. She didn’t know if she did or not. In one way, she had already said her goodbyes, but in another, she felt as though something was missing from that, and maybe a service was what was needed. Not that she thought it would save either of their souls, though Rita had redeemed herself a little by trying to free Patsy. In a way she had saved Patsy’s life.

  Releasing the lever that kept the back of her chair upright, she leaned back until she was in a relaxing position. With the comfort of this she felt she could read a while and take her mind off things. When she’d last left off after reading about a couple more successful missions, Theresa and Pierre were about to be involved in resistance that would assist the planned D-Day landings. They had moved north with those men who could go with them, and had joined forces with other Resistance groups.

  With so many now available to carry out the operations assigned to them by Command on or around the sixth of June, their own mission would be to sabotage the advance of any reinforcements that the Germans sent to the area once they knew an invasion had taken place.

  Pierre was to head a group who were to sabotage German railcars just as soon as they knew which divisions were on the march and from where. The most likely one, and the one many spies were watching and gathering intelligence on, was the 2nd SS-Panzer Division, Das Reich, one of the most elite forces of the German army, at present stationed in the south of France following their campaign in Russia. The Resistance knew they had to do everything possible to delay their advance should they be deployed.

  Theresa was also linked up with other SOEs, and between them they took responsibility for missions and intelligence-gathering. As her involvement was with Pierre’s division and would take place immediately following the landing, she and Pierre could escape for a few days.

  Both were beside themselves with joy at the prospect of seeing Jacques, now nearly nine months old. And Pierre was really looking forward to seeing his parents again.

  Finding the page she’d marked with the photo of Pierre, Lizzie took a moment to look at him again. Shocked at just how much the young man she’d seen earlier really did look like Pierre, she stared at every detail. Even the dark shaven appearance was the same, and the smile had been identical – sort of lopsided, with an uplift of one eyebrow. It was uncanny. She had to force herself to tuck it into the front of the book and begin to read.

  A Dangerous Mission of Extreme Importance – June 1944

  It was a relief when they pulled up outside the farm. They had taken a great risk driving down, and it had taken them ten hours as against the normal six or seven. The couple of times they had been stopped by German road blocks, they had used their practised ploy: Theresa, with her dress stuffed with a cushion, had screamed in pain, and Pierre had begged that they let them pass and get on their way. Both were disguised – Pierre as a miner, his face, hands and nails pitted with soot, and wearing clothes of the type a workman wore. His hair was coloured ginger, while Theresa wore a wig, having refused to have her own hair dyed again. Her dress was that of a peasant, and her teeth looked as though they were rotting. Their van was old, and they said it had been lent to them.

  The one time when they were miles from anywhere and not going in the direction of a city where there was a hospital, they had said they had been on their way to take Theresa to relatives for the birth when the pains had started. They now needed to get there as soon as possible, but if they didn’t make it they would stop at a farm and beg for help.

  The tension had been enormous, as more than once they had pulled off into a farmyard when they could see German vehicles in the distance. Only the last few miles had been without incident.

  As Pierre hooted the horn, making a racket that set her nerves even further on edge, Theresa said, ‘We cannot take the chance of going back that way, Pierre. We won’t be able to stay as long as we had hoped. We will have to set off back in a couple of days and return separately.’

  ‘I have been thinking the same. You can return by train. I will do the first leg in this van as I will be safe for around two hundred and fifty kilometres. Then the next three hundred or so kilometres I will have to do cross-country, relying on farmers to take me short distances in tractors or concealed in amongst the vegetables if they are making any deliveries. I will get there. I did the same when I brought Jacques here, and I made it here and back in three days.’

  All she could do was clutch his hand.

  ‘Come, ma chérie. Let us not let the thought of that spoil the couple of days we do have. We can relax now. This place is very remote, and as long as Father has managed to keep up his quota of output, it is unlikely the Germans or the officials of the Free Government will bother to come anywhere near here. They would not waste their time.’

  As he finished saying this, a fair-haired man of around fifty came out of the gate. His hand shielded his face as he peered at the van. Behind him was a woman with the same dark hair and eyes as Pierre had. Other than that, she bore little resemblance to Pierre, as her face was that of a Jewish lady with striking dark features and eyes. Both looked anxious.

  ‘Ha! Regardez, c’est ma mère et papa.’

  ‘Yes, I can see them, Pierre, but they cannot see us. The sun is putting us in the shadow. They look so worried! We should get out and show ourselves.’

  Pulling the cushion from under her clothes, Theresa opened the van door. Pierre called out to the couple in French as he opened his door, telling them it was him. This set up squeals of joy.

  It was their last afternoon. They sat in a field alone. They hadn’t been out much since getting here, as the time had been taken doing every little thing Jacques needed – playing with him and rocking him to sleep, then talking for long hours with Pierre’s mother and father. She loved them both. They we
re such gentle people. Neither held any bitterness in them, when they would have been justified in doing so. Pierre’s father had taken some pictures of them. ‘I will keep them for you and you can have them when all this is over.’

  The old farmer who had given Pierre’s parents refuge had kept out of their way, giving them all the space they needed. There had been a moment of sadness when Pierre’s mother had voiced her fears and had broken down. His father had comforted her, but had looked close to tears himself as he did so.

  Now, Jacques was taking his afternoon nap, and they had needed to talk about things they couldn’t discuss in front of anyone else.

  ‘How will we contact each other if anything goes wrong? Oh, Pierre, with everything so vital to the Allied Forces’ landing, and that only days away, we shouldn’t have taken this chance!’

  ‘It will work out, ma chérie, you have no need to worry. I have many contacts along the way. They helped me before, and they will do so again. And the train journey . . . well, you have done those before, and have managed to get safely to your destination. That will be so again. You will wear your wig, and dress as a secretary. As that was successful for you once, you will be practised at it. Mother is the same size as you and always wore the most fashionable clothing. I am sure she has a suitable jacket in the wardrobe, and you have a skirt with you. We will make you look the part. We will rendezvous in Calvados on the border of Bessin and Caen. There is a flour mill there. Just say to the miller: “Un kilo de farine.” Nothing else. Don’t modify it to say you are here for a kilo of flour, or you want a kilo of flour. Just “un kilo de farine”. He will know from that that you are one of us and he will take care of you until I arrive. Now, as this is the last time we are to be together for days, are we going to waste it on talk?’

  He gently laid her down. She looked up into his eyes. In them she read a deep love for her. Her lips accepted his, parted under the pressure he forced with his tongue, and then tasted the sweetness of him as he explored her mouth. She shivered as his head moved down to her neck, licking her, sucking her skin into his mouth, nibbling gently and releasing, saying as he did, ‘Ma femme, ma femme adorée.’ Taking this as a proposal, she said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I am your wife for ever. I am yours.’

  His tongue traced a path to her cleavage, where his hand kneaded her nipples until they pressed against the restriction of her blouse. ‘Oh, Pierre, I want you. I want you inside me. Please . . .’

  Her voice begged him, but he only made a sound between a groan and a laugh. Undoing her buttons and helping her to wriggle out of her blouse, he let his tongue take the course down the centre of her stomach and around her belly button. Grabbing his hair, she begged once more, but with eyes full of desire and holding hers, he took her hands, and with a little pressure laid her back down. Lifting her skirt, he pulled aside her pants and with his tongue caressed the most sensitive part of her. Within seconds the sensation built to a crescendo that she could not bear. Raising the top half of her body, she grabbed his hair once more and pulled his head further towards her. She needed pressure whilst her orgasm pulsated through her. ‘Hold still, Pierre.’ The words gasped from her. ‘Don’t . . . moo-o-ve. Oooh! Oh. Oh, my God!’

  When the feeling subsided, it felt as though she would wane too – that she would be as if everything had been taken from her. Flopping back, she lay breathless and weak.

  His voice hoarse and deep, he said, ‘Maintenant, ma bienaimée. My beloved, now . . .’

  Then he entered her with a thrust that put him deep into her. With it came his beautiful cry of joy and an exquisite moan, telling her that he too was draining himself of all that he was.

  With his body flopped on hers, she knew a moment of feeling privileged to have shared this emptying of each other, this extreme giving and taking of love with Pierre, her soulmate and her life.

  After a moment he lifted himself and smiled at her. ‘So, you agree to be my wife? That makes me very happy. Thank you. As soon as this is over we will marry, ma chérie.’

  She smiled back, but the troubled thoughts pressing to be unburdened shivered her body. ‘I have something I want to share with you, Pierre.’

  ‘But you are cold, no? And it is not always a good thing to empty your conscience. Nothing that has gone before matters . . .’

  ‘This does. But, yes, I do want to dress first.’ He only took a moment to pull up his trousers and button his flies. She took longer to adjust her clothing and put her bra and blouse back on. While he waited he lit two cigarettes. Taking hers, she inhaled deeply.

  ‘I know you are troubled by something, ma chérie, but whatever it is it will not make a difference.’

  ‘I had another child before I came here.’

  ‘A child?’ His face held shock, but after a moment he composed himself. ‘A child born of love?’

  ‘No. I – I . . .’ She had come this far, and now only the truth would do. ‘I seduced another woman’s husband. He had a past. He was rough. Evil. He fascinated me. I – I . . . had to give my baby away.’ This came on a sob.

  He was quiet for a long moment, then he said, ‘Lust is a very powerful emotion, perhaps even stronger than love when it is at its height. You giving in to it I can understand, but not to care for your child . . . this I find difficult. Why?’

  ‘Many reasons, but none that soothes my pain at her loss. We had to keep it a secret from my mother, as she is mentally very frail. The scandal would have tipped her over the edge. The war was gaining momentum, and I wanted to do my bit. The man, he beat me after . . . This left me afraid of him. He released me from that fear when he committed suicide after murdering his poor mother, but by then I had gone too far down the line to change my mind, and my father had arranged everything. It seemed better to go through with it rather than cause hurt to my mother.’

  She could not tell him of the other pull on her emotions that she had to escape: her sinful love for her twin brother. If she hadn’t left, neither of them could have moved on from it. Both of their lives would have been left in tatters. No, she’d had to be strong and part of that was to continue with her plan in giving up her child.

  Pierre wiped her tears, then kissed away the remnants of them. ‘Will you be able to live with this when this is all over?’ The gentle tone of this told that he understood.

  ‘No. I want her back. I want to bring her here as part of our family. Could you accept her?’

  ‘But of course! There is no question. She is part of you, so therefore part of me.’

  This brought her tears flowing once more. ‘Thank you, Pierre. Thank you. I love you.’

  Parting with Jacques had fragmented her heart, but she was able to put all thoughts of the pain of it behind her as a few nights later, and after their meeting at the mill, she lay a few feet away from Pierre. Their mission was under way, their minds and bodies tuned into their task and that alone.

  The darkness was cloying as they inched nearer their target. Ahead there was light, and in its glow she could see the rail-cars. These were transporting thousands of the 2nd SS-Panzer Division, who had begun to march north towards the Normandy beaches, a trip that would normally take three days but because of measures of disruption caused by other factions of the Resistance, and excellent intelligence of their positions being relayed, they were already delayed by seven days. This was precious time the Allied troops needed to make a speedy advance, and precious information that the RAF needed to make air strikes to further disable them.

  The mission tonight was to siphon off all the axle oil from the division’s rail transport cars and replace it with abrasive grease. This act would make it impossible for the division to ship out tomorrow to continue their journey, and would render the railcars useless. She didn’t know how long it would take for them to gather other means of transport for so many men. Her job was to kill on command – to remove the threat of discovery and of the escape of the guards, so they could not raise the alarm.

  Along the track, she could see two guards
patrolling the line. She watched them as they marched towards each other, turned when they met in the middle, and marched back the other way. The same was happening on the other side of the cars.

  Pierre signalled to André. André could move like a shadow: noiseless and furtive. Dressed in black from head to toe, it was difficult to see him even when you knew he was on the move and where he was going. He was a deadly killer. Throats were cut in an instant, before an utter of protest could be made. He was a man you needed on your side, and there was no doubting his patriotism.

  The patrolling soldiers met in the middle again. Complacent now, they stopped. One drew out a cigarette packet from his coat, offering it to the other one. A moment’s glow told of the lighting up. A soft laugh told of them sharing a joke. Smug bastards!

  The sound of a wood pigeon was the signal that told her she should halt her progress. Relief at this steadied her heartbeat just a little, but still terror ran through her veins. Now another coo. And then a noise generated by André which let them know he’d accomplished his mission and was causing a distraction. Not a loud enough one to wake the next shift of guards from their sleep, but enough to have those on duty now look in that direction, luring their attention and giving her and Pierre a chance to strike.

  Knife at the ready, she was up in one movement. She advanced on her target from behind, kicked the back of his knee, bent over so that he fell backwards over her, she stood, and almost simultaneously felt the soft squelch of her blade digging deep into his heart. Her hand held his mouth, muffling his cry. His body lay sprawled next to his fellow soldier, who Pierre had killed at the same time.

  The silence closed in on them, but they waited. Nothing stirred. Pierre lifted his hand. From out of the woods behind them came the mechanics. They would carry out the switching of the oil for the abrasive grease, while the rest of them would keep their eyes peeled for any Germans emerging from the railcars.