The Lines We Leave Behind

by Graham, Eliza

  ‘When it’s not raining.’ Amber looked out at the street.

  ‘Our holiday destination will be cooler,’ Naomi said. It would be very early spring. Still winter up in the hills, though. Amber put coins on the table. ‘Let me pay for mine,’ Naomi said.

  ‘Buy me a drink when we’re back.’ Wherever it was they would come back to. Perhaps she and Naomi would not return together to the same place.

  They locked eyes.

  The rain had stopped but the street was still deserted. ‘We’re the only women ever sent to . . . where we’re going, did you know that?’ Naomi said.

  ‘When I was being trained at home I only ever seemed to meet women who were going into France,’ Amber said.

  ‘At least the Partisan men will treat us with respect because they’re used to working with women who aren’t just auxiliaries. One of the advantages of communism.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Working on the kibbutz has changed the way I see things.’ They turned a corner and saw a woman sitting against a shop wall, infant in lap. The woman raised crusted eyes towards them, appearing too lethargic even to beg. ‘I find this poverty hard. The women and children and old people suffer so much.’ Naomi gave the woman coins and received a muttered blessing. ‘When we have daughters, we will be able to tell them they can do anything. It is better in Palestine in that respect than it was in Budapest. We have little, but men and women are the same, which is right.’

  Could she, Amber, really do anything a man could? Bright but idle, the headmistress of her school in Sussex had written in her last report. Good at languages. Possesses a little-employed, yet remarkable speed and agility on the sports field, but regards most games as beneath her. Shows an interest in mechanical matters that this school cannot accommodate. Nobody expected middle-class English girls to know how the Upper School wireless set worked, or offer to help tidy up the Physics labs.

  ‘I really don’t know why they chose me to do this,’ she admitted to Naomi. Probably the wrong thing to say and not what you wanted to hear from someone you were going to rely on in the field.

  ‘They’re very particular,’ Naomi said. ‘They take a lot of time and trouble when they select us. There must be something about you that marks you out, Amber.’

  ‘Can’t think what. I didn’t exactly distinguish myself earlier in my life.’ She would have liked to have told Naomi about her receptionist job, but it was against the rules to talk about life before they’d come here.

  ‘Your particular talent might be something quite hard to discern.’

  Amber turned on Naomi, and then saw the smile on her face.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s obviously unusual and valuable.’ There was almost warmth in Naomi’s voice now. ‘Forget what I said to you in the gym. I was trying to provoke you, make you pay attention.’

  ‘I’m paying attention now.’ Their eyes met in understanding.

  They parted at a junction, Naomi heading for her hostel and Amber walking west through the rain-refreshed streets, crossing the bridge to Gezira Island and her villa. She paused at a fruit stall to buy a pomegranate, a fruit she’d never eaten before. The little pink jewels inside always fascinated her. The rain gone, the late afternoon air felt warm again. From a nearby minaret the muezzin call to prayer began and she stood for a moment to listen, suddenly more aware of the fact that she might never return to Egypt.

  She was still thinking about what Naomi had said to her as she walked inside the villa, trying to work out why the words had stirred her up so much. Perhaps because no other woman of her own age had ever challenged her like this, forced her to confront herself, and then accepted her as an ally. Most girls at school had regarded Maud as an outsider, leaving her alone except when they wanted her for a sports team. ‘I have actually made a friend,’ she told herself. Perhaps this was a dangerous assumption; Naomi would probably tell her they were colleagues or associates, that was all.

  One of her housemates had left his tobacco tin on the table next to the gramophone. She put down her pomegranate and picked it up, wondering how quickly she could replicate Robert’s turning the lid into a blade. He’d used his left hand. Small details about people could be important, note them. Had the teachers at his school punished him for not writing with his right hand?

  ‘You want cigarette papers, miss?’ the houseboy asked. ‘I buy for you?’

  ‘No.’ She replaced the tin, blushing slightly. ‘Thank you.’ She looked at her pomegranate. ‘Could you please bring me a fruit knife and a plate?’

  6

  Late May 1947

  I tell Dr Rosenstein about the way Naomi challenged me and how, just before we flew out of Cairo, we started to form a working relationship. Dr Rosenstein looks pleased and writes a brief note.

  She moves back to the subject of Robert’s tobacco tin.

  ‘Robert himself taught you how to turn a tin lid into a blade and inflict a mortal wound, piercing a lung or the liver.’ Dr Rosenstein says it as though summarising a schoolteacher’s lesson.

  I nod.

  ‘Yet your attack only resulted in a few scars on the torso?’

  ‘There was a lot of blood.’ I can see the improvised knife in my hand, the red line spreading across the front of my husband’s shirt. I remember the pain in my own pelvis and back. More images of blood on my upper thighs flash through my memory, which I can’t account for. Had I been undressed when I attacked him? Had he tried to force himself on me? No. He could be forceful, but I couldn’t recall him treating me with such aggression on previous occasions. Not that it would make any difference in proving my culpability or otherwise, as there is no such offence as rape in marriage.

  ‘You couldn’t kill him?’

  For a moment I feel like I did at school when the domestic science teacher complained about my scones not rising properly.

  ‘Why do you think that was? You were highly trained, after all.’ Dr Rosenstein folds her hands in front of her like a small girl who’s been well trained at sitting patiently. I think again of my husband. I see our bodies close together and the blade between us. I see him falling. I can almost taste the metallic tang of blood flowing out of him.

  ‘Did you love him too much to want him dead?’

  Oh, I loved him. The very scent of him, the way he moved. Acknowledging this at the same time as the fear and hatred I felt – feel – for my husband makes the monsters awaken inside me. They stretch their limbs and flex their muscles. ‘Why can’t you just give me more drugs?’ I ask. ‘Or another ECT session?’ Just strap me to the bed, place the cathodes on me and shock all the wickedness out of me, make me good again.

  ‘You don’t need those things, Maud.’

  ‘They work.’ When I came to after the first ECT, I felt as blank and calm as a newborn. The word is that Dr Rosenstein doesn’t like ECT, Jim tells me. Regards it as a last resort.

  ‘Answering questions like this is a better way to help you return to the world outside. And reducing your drugs means you can spend more time doing enjoyable things like playing badminton or walking. You might even like to venture farther afield. Into the village, perhaps?’

  ‘By myself?’

  ‘Ingrams would go with you at first.’

  In the village there’s a shop that sells sweets, writing pads and other odds and ends. I picture myself buying a new writing pad and perhaps a pencil and a bar of chocolate.

  ‘I don’t believe in shutting people away from the world any longer than necessary.’

  ‘But I’m dangerous.’ Mad, warped.

  She gives me that little smile of hers and can’t seem to resist a peep at her daughter’s photograph. ‘What you’re telling me is helping to untie all the tangles in your past.’

  I think again of the Official Secrets Act, of all that information about the mission, no matter how coded, that I must be imparting. My worry must show on my face.

  ‘There are no names or exact wartime locations in my notes. You’ve never actually given m
e precise details about your mission or full names of those you worked with.’

  I probably didn’t know their real names myself. At that stage, could I even be sure that Robert Havers was really called Robert Havers? Could I be sure of that even now?

  I must still be looking anxious, though, because she places one of her hands on mine. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t get into trouble. You’re doing so well.’

  I nod.

  ‘Before our next session I want you to think about the start of your sexual relationship with Robert.’

  I will. I’ll write notes in my book. I’ll do anything she says.

  ‘I’ll set up an appointment in a fortnight, so there’s time for you to prepare yourself.’

  I murmur something in response.

  Ingrams takes me back to my room. ‘You’re quiet,’ he tells me.

  ‘So much to think about,’ I mutter.

  He nods. ‘Sit in your room for a while, perhaps. I’ll order you up some tea and come back for you later. You can play badminton with Jim if he’s not practising his juggling. Or he can perhaps give you another bridge lesson.’

  ‘I must check the doves,’ I say. ‘See if the eggs have hatched.’ Woodlands Asylum provides quite the social whirl. But nothing could compare to Cairo.

  The young American, one of Amber’s housemates, was bored too and suggested jumping in a taxi and going to a party held by some of his compatriots. ‘They have great booze,’ he told her. ‘C’mon, Amber, you’ve already read that magazine and we’ve listened to all the gramophone records at least three times. What’s happened to the party girl I used to know and love?’

  ‘We could just go to the club.’

  ‘You’re always there.’

  An American party would probably be safe as they wouldn’t know British people working in the Signals base where Amber was supposedly spending her days filing, and wouldn’t ask potentially compromising questions. And the Americans were allies.

  But when they arrived Amber could pick out the clipped accents of several of her countrymen on the verandah. She turned to go back inside. Robert stood by the gramophone, cigarette in one hand, whisky in the other. He put out a hand and introduced himself to her. She took it, showing no recognition as she met his eye. She exchanged a few polite words with their hostess and retreated to the opposite side of the room. A cocktail was placed in her hand. It was cool and dry and she drank it quickly before making her excuses. ‘Headache, so sorry, lovely party . . .’

  When she slipped out to hail a taxi Robert suddenly appeared at her side.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I know I shouldn’t really be here.’

  ‘You managed the situation well. And I didn’t confine you to barracks.’ He seemed more relaxed this evening. Perhaps it was the whisky. ‘Just cautioned you to be discreet when you’re socialising because there are people in Cairo who could see through your cover story.’

  ‘I should have stayed in.’

  ‘An early night? You?’ He looked at her appraisingly. ‘Although, the first time I met you in that nightclub with Peter you looked as though you’d rather have been home with some knitting and a decent play on the wireless.’

  She blushed.

  ‘Certainly doesn’t match the impression I’ve been given of you since you arrived in Cairo.’

  ‘I’m trying to clean up my act.’

  ‘Good girl. But no need to go too far in the other direction. Mind if I share this with you?’ He nodded towards the taxi. When they were seated inside she wondered if they’d sit in silence. People said that Cairo taxi drivers sometimes spied for the Germans. ‘Most people find Cairo very tempting,’ he said, as he sat down. Perhaps he was still testing her. Wanting to see if she’d be careless, say something she oughtn’t about the operation.

  ‘Young Naomi’s very austere in her approach,’ he went on.

  Amber said nothing.

  ‘Her attitude is impressive.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But we need to make sure her mission objectives are the same as ours.’

  She didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘You’re very loyal, Amber.’ His shoulder touched hers. ‘That’s good. Don’t worry, you’ve responded exactly as I hoped you would.’

  ‘Have I?’ She put a hand to her head. That cocktail had been stronger than she’d imagined. Perhaps it wasn’t the alcohol, though.

  ‘Let’s get out and walk the last bit,’ Robert said. He spoke to the driver in Arabic. How many languages did this man speak? But his Serbo-Croat wasn’t as good as hers.

  The exercise would help clear her head. Did Robert think she was drunk? Once again she had let herself down in front of him. But he seemed relaxed tonight.

  ‘Beautiful.’ He nodded at the lights twinkling on the island. ‘Come on. Let’s walk across the bridge.’ The cool air folded itself around her bare neck and shoulders.

  ‘I love Cairo at night,’ she said.

  ‘Me too,’ he agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t swap a day here for London on a foggy winter day, either. The lack of sunlight, the gloom.’

  ‘That’s what I missed most when I started boarding school,’ she said. ‘Sunshine even in the winter. It could be miserable up at . . .’ she looked over her shoulder. It had become a habit. Nobody behind them. ‘At the mine. But often there’d be brilliantly sunny days.’ It had made her feel alive, watching the sunlight glint on the snow.

  ‘Perhaps a lot of the way you lived in England was an attempt to feel alive again,’ he said quietly.

  ‘The way I lived?’ Her cheeks flushed. She was going to ask him what the hell he meant, but, of course, she knew. And he was right. Damn, his research had been good. What a failure she’d made of her time in London. All those men. The dull job. She’d never be good at relationships or life. Something about her was too intense. She was best off distracting herself with work, with playing a part, like she was here. Or, more truthfully, becoming the part: becoming Amber rather than Maud.

  They were halfway across the bridge. The light reflected off the water below. Amber shivered.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just had the strangest feeling . . .’

  He halted, looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. A sense of something I can’t explain.’

  He looked suddenly serious. ‘You should trust those intuitions. Sometimes they mean that you’re picking up on some signal your conscious mind hasn’t quite grasped. Remember what Harry said?’

  Harry was the man who had trained them in the use of what he called special gadgetry, such as maps printed on silk squares sewn into the linings of coats, and buttons that concealed compasses. Before the war he’d been a conjurer, an illusionist, trained to read the feelings of his audience and exploit them.

  ‘I used to see signs in London.’ She flushed again. ‘It sounds as if I was mad. Perhaps I was. I’d see omens in the number of pigeons sitting on a telegraph wire or whether the next bus would pass me from the left or the right. Neurosis, I suppose.’

  ‘A lot of people probably did the same thing during the Blitz.’

  ‘But I’ve always looked for patterns, even before the war.’ Why was she confiding in him like this? ‘You probably think I’m mad and unsuitable now.’

  ‘We had you thoroughly evaluated,’ he told her. ‘If there’d been anything that worried us, you wouldn’t be here. Let’s just say that many of the people who work for us are not entirely . . . orderly in their psychological make-up.’

  Well, that was her: not quite orderly in her mind. They’d almost reached the island.

  ‘Is Naomi orderly in her mind?’ She couldn’t resist asking. Was she still jealous of Naomi?

  ‘Oh Naomi’s pretty sane. Obsessed, though.’ His pupils were dilated as he mentioned the Jewish girl. ‘She’d only be happy if the entire Allied war effort were deployed against the people allegedly running the death camps in Poland.’

  ‘But she’ll do what you want in Y
ugoslavia?’

  ‘Naomi will play along with our objectives for as long as it suits her.’ He gave Amber a sidelong look, sounding harsher. ‘And I know I can rely on you to warn me in your transmissions if that’s not the case.’

  Amber nodded. If she hadn’t brought the subject of Naomi up now, had he intended asking her to do this later on?

  He stopped again. ‘Let’s just stand here for a moment.’

  He gazed intently at the city lights. Beneath them, a felucca turned in front of the bridge, its triangular sail lowered. The reflections of its lanterns shone like small broken coins on the river’s surface. Voices reached them. Cairo never seemed to sleep. ‘Magical, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Like a scene from the Arabian Nights.’ She’d never had Robert down as a romantic. At first she’d regarded him as almost aggressively masculine with his hooded eyes and broad shoulders. ‘My wife didn’t like the Orient, but it pulls at me in a way I find irresistible.’

  ‘Your wife?’ Amber stood up straight.

  ‘She died. Early in the Blitz.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She had met people who’d lost those close to them, of course – most people had by this stage in the war – but she still felt tongue-tied.

  ‘It was a few years ago now,’ he said. He stood looking at the water below.

  Amber tried to remember what Mama had taught her about moving a conversation on if it grew too difficult. ‘Will you stay in Cairo while we’re . . . away?’ she asked. ‘Or do you fly over, too?’ Almost immediately she realised her mistake. ‘Oh God, sorry, sir, I know you probably can’t say.’

  His arms were around her waist before she had finished the sentence. ‘You don’t have to call me sir now. Let’s not talk any more.’

  She took a step back, feeling the bridge parapet against her back. Amber still had enough of Maud in her to respond to the old sensations. His mouth felt rough on hers at first. It had been some months since she’d kissed like this. Peter had been a young man, a boy, really. His cheeks had been soft. Robert felt coarser, as though he needed to shave even though no stubble showed, but more exciting because of it. It was always a relief, she remembered, when you stopped talking and started kissing. The tension she’d felt between herself and Robert ever since they’d first met had puzzled her. Why did he sometimes seem to dislike her so much? Had it just been an unacknowledged attraction causing the strain between them? She was almost disappointed. Was it always going to come down to sex? Was any ambiguity between a man and a woman, any unanswered question, always about a physical pull?