At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Their coats were thin and wretched, their headscarves faded, their breath as misty in the cold. Many coughed, their shoulders rounded, though most straightened when they passed German patrols, looking ahead, not sparing these interlopers the time of day.

  She passed the new safe house, walking on without a sideways glance. She rounded the corner, sneaking a look back. No-one was following, no-one was watching the house. She continued along the road and turned left, approaching the house from the rear. She stopped again at a gate, removed another invisible stone. Yes, the stick she had placed beneath the gate was still as it was. She entered, slipping along the side of the yard and into the house.

  She waited under the stairs, listening. Nothing, just creaks. She slipped into the kitchen. There was a cellar trapdoor in the floor, covered by a rug. The house was no longer used, except by her, and by Bernard if he needed to move from his safe house. Just once, though, an escaping prisoner had been brought to her. She had mentioned Derek to him. He didn’t know of him, but he was a pilot, so why would he? Where was her husband? It didn’t seem to matter any more, but it should.

  She sat at the kitchen table and put her head on her arms. She must not sleep, but she did.

  Bernard woke her, stroking back her hair. He stood beside her. ‘Don’t get up.’ He knelt, holding her against him. ‘I can hear you breathing. Your chest is worse. It seemed quieter before we went our separate ways.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Sarah coughed. He stood, lifted her up and carried her to the dining room, where she slept on a ragged mattress. He set her on it and let his canvas bag drop to the floor. ‘I have food, and drink.’ He joined her on the mattress, knees up, back against the wall. Both kept on their coats and shoes, and dragged over their legs an old coat they had found. Bernard shared bread, cheese, pâté and wine with her. ‘I’m worried about you,’ he murmured as he handed her the bottle. She drank from it, soothing her throat.

  ‘Don’t. This will pass. The men are ready for the drop tomorrow?’

  He nodded, tearing the bread by the light of the full moon. He said, as he did so, ‘It will be good weather next month, thank heavens. Or so my contact tells me, though how he knows …?’

  She laughed, then coughed. ‘A straight line to God perhaps?’

  ‘Or a big mouth, and lots of hope. It’s been approved that you return, just for a break.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Soon after you, perhaps,’ he said. ‘I have some things to sort out. Now sleep. We won’t get any tomorrow night.’

  She lay down beneath the coat.

  Bernard said, ‘Tonight, Cécile, I will stay. I’m worried about you,’ he repeated. He lay close, for warmth; that was all. Just for warmth.

  They stayed in bed throughout the morning of the next day, sleeping, waking, eating stale bread and drinking the remains of the wine, and water. Sarah ached. He said she was burning and put a cool wet cloth on her forehead. His handkerchief? He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. She heard him say, ‘I love you, my beloved, and you have been here too long.’

  She thought: I love you too, but there is Derek. She had failed, because she hadn’t found him, and even forgot him sometimes. She slept.

  They left separately in the early afternoon, heading towards the dropping zone, reaching it as dusk fell, but before curfew. The men and Renée had already dug a pit for the parachutes, over to the right. Soon the group was gathered close. Bernard whispered, ‘Watch me; when you see my torch, switch on yours. The moment the drop finishes, collect the containers, bury the parachutes.’ The group already knew, because this was their second drop. They each waited in their places. Arnaud and Florian took the top and toe, and there was one person at each corner. She and Bernard took up position in the middle of the sides.

  They lay on the frosty ground, listening, waiting, looking. The full moon beamed down. The moonlight was so bright it almost cast shadows. Sarah wrapped her scarf around her face, feeling too hot, then shivering with cold. The cycle ride had taken the last of her energy. Her head felt fit to burst. The men would take the supplies to the dump, then they’d melt back into their worlds. She would head for Rouen, whilst Bernard made for who-knew-where.

  Sarah heard a faint rumble and raised her head, keeping as low to the ground as possible. There it was again, carried on the wind or whatever carried sound. It grew louder, but not yet, not yet. Then she saw Bernard’s torchlight.

  She sprang to her feet, hearing the sound of a Whitley, which was slightly different from a Lysander. How quickly she had come to recognise the different engines. Closer and closer, lower and lower. There it was, a dark looming shape approaching at 500 feet. Steadily it came, and then the parachutes were swinging down. She saw two parachutists and several containers. They all hit the ground, clunk-clunk-clunk.

  The group rushed to them, detaching the parachutes and gathering them up as the Whitley flew off, dropping leaflets over Rouen, which was a cover that perhaps worked.

  The group rushed the parachutes to the pit. They all took shovels and hurled in earth. Sarah’s legs were trembling, her chest singing. Pierre was next to her. ‘A train, you sound like a train.’

  She laughed almost silently. ‘Hush, and shovel.’ He did.

  Sarah saw Bernard shaking the hands of the agents, then hurrying them from the field. The stones in the earth clinked on the shovels. Bernard was now leaving the zone with the agents. She watched; he would leave her a message when he needed to. She coughed, and again. Arnaud took the shovel from her. ‘Renée needs help. I’m quicker.’

  He was. Sarah ran across the field to Renée, who was struggling to lift a container. She took the other end. It felt heavy enough for weapons. ‘Renée, come on. Quick, quick.’

  Together they hurried to the edge of the zone, into the woods, and then to the container dump, which was under a defunct charcoal kiln. Sarah had thought it would make a good container dump, the first time she had seen a kiln in the woods. It had been modified by them to reduce its weight and accommodate being moved, but even so, it took all their strength to shove the kiln off the dump. There were already containers in it, but room for more. They dragged the kiln back and then faded, each of them, into the woods, making their solitary way home, staying away from patrols or lying low until the morning and continuing after the curfew was lifted.

  Sarah’s plan was to do just that. It was too dangerous to try and cycle through Rouen at night. She propped her bike against the inside of the hedge, pulled her coat around her and waited in the piercing November cold until dawn. She sank her head onto her knees and waited another two hours. Then, at a time when people might be cycling to the town to find food, she dragged her bicycle back onto the road. There was ice at the bottom of the ditch, and frost in the furrows. She saw Arnaud and Renée in the distance on the other side, heading on foot up the hill. Why the hell hadn’t they gone in the dark, for they only had a short distance to go?

  She saw that Renée was helping Arnaud, who limped – even more reason to make headway in the dark. She would mention it when they next met. She cycled on with no energy to hurry, and had gone only a couple of hundred yards when a German armoured car approached, drawing closer and closer. She put her head down and ignored it, though she listened as it passed, relaxing as it continued. She always worried that the Whitley had been heard and the Germans were hunting possible dropped agents. The car continued along the road behind her, and she sweated, her back prickling. Were they suspicious? Had they seen Arnaud and Renée?

  She heard the screech of brakes, just as another armoured car scorched out of a side road, blocking the way ahead. Soldiers spilled from it, straddling the road, rifles at the ready. Behind her she heard the armoured car reversing, revving forward, reversing again, revving towards her. She was trapped. She glanced up the hill and saw Renée and Arnaud throwing themselves to the ground. Had the Germans seen them yet? To her left was a gap in the hedge.

  ‘Halt.’ The call came from behind. Ahead, the soldie
rs raised their rifles. ‘Halt.’

  Any minute now someone would look up the hill. She flung herself from the bicycle and jumped the ditch, bursting through the hedge and groping under her coat, drawing the revolver she carried on drops, from the back of her waistband. She ran across the ploughed field, the soil dragging at her shoes, slowing her, making the terror boil within her, but she had done the arithmetic. She was only one person; Renée and Arnaud were two. The gulls lifted from the furrows.

  Shots were fired behind her. She turned, aimed and fired wildly, at nothing, because the soldiers hadn’t burst through the hedge yet, and she must create a diversion. She swept a look at the opposite hill. Arnaud and Renée were still lying low. She ran on, then turned. The Germans were forcing their way through the hedge now. Beyond, up the hill, Renée and Arnaud were crawling, heading for the top of the hill. They were almost there, almost, and still had not been seen. The soldiers were through into the field, aiming their rifles, firing but their shots were high. They’d want her alive. One had a machine gun; she heard its stutter as she turned and ran on. Bullets zipped past her. She fell, staggered to her knees, turned and fired again and again. Renée and Arnaud were disappearing over the ridge.

  Sarah fired once more as the soldiers closed on her, but there was only a click. An order was shouted. There were no more shots, but the soldiers’ rifles were held at the ready. An officer was in the lead. She staggered to her feet, threw the revolver to the side and readied herself, taking the knife from her pocket. One soldier was down just this side of the hedge; she could see the grey of his uniform, his helmet upturned beside him. How could that happen? She’d been careful. Oh God.

  She readied herself. Step by step they were closing, their breath visible in the cold. They were big, their faces impassive, hate in their eyes. She shivered, her hands numb with fear. There was no escape. She wanted her mother. She wanted Bernard.

  The officer smiled as he put one muddy boot in front of the other. He drew on his gloves. Why had he taken them off? The soldiers were closer now. She could see the mud on their boots. That wouldn’t please them, for the sergeant would have them spitting and polishing. Above, the gulls called. Sarah looked up, wishing she had wings, wishing she was on a Lysander, heading home to Little Worthy. But she was Cécile Lamont, and her home was Limoges. Cécile Lamont, with ‘miles to go before I sleep’, as Robert Frost’s last line said. Yes, it would seem like miles. She must hold out, but it would be better if they fired, right now.

  The officer stood before her. ‘Well, well. You will come with us.’ The knife was in her hand. She brought it up, but he blocked her arm. She kicked his knee, brought up her other hand, caught him behind his ear. He went down. She held out the knife to the others, as the officer groaned at her feet. Kill me, she urged them, because I must not betray anyone, and I can’t reach the pill we were given. It would be better – much better – if they fired, then she could sleep.

  She heard breathing behind her, whirled too late, as an arm came round her neck and a hand grabbed her hair, pulling back her head. Her scarf was round her throat. The arm tightened. She choked, crumbling to her knees, the arm squeezing tighter and tighter. Her woollen scarf blew in her face. He pushed her head forward now. She looked into the officer’s eyes as he struggled onto an elbow. ‘Bastard,’ she gasped.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘Enough.’

  The grip on her throat loosened, but the soldier kept hold of her hair. She felt sick, and her chest rattled.

  The officer came close. ‘So, we will find out who you are. We heard your Whitley. We will find out your plans, your groups. We will destroy you, but first you will want to die.’

  ‘Bastard,’ she repeated, but any courage she had was ebbing with her strength. She was dragged to the armoured car. Renée and Arnaud would be raising the alarm, even now. Supplies would be moved, the group would disperse, no-one would know where anyone else went, but a message would be left for Bernard. At least he would know; at least Lizzy and Kate would be told, eventually. She saw them for a moment and knew without a doubt that Kate would care for Lizzy but would she tell …? She coughed, tried to catch her breath, but failed. Coughed and coughed again, struggling for breath.

  She was dragged along, over the furrows. She couldn’t fall because they held her arms so tightly. They shoved her through the hedge and pushed her down into the ditch. They laughed, looming over her as she lay helpless in the half-frozen sludge. She was hauled out, and into the car. The wind was blowing hard. She sat back. The gulls called above her. She watched them. They were free, as she never would be again.

  As they drove along, with a revolver at her head, she wondered how the Germans had really known? Was it indeed the sound of the Whitley, or bad luck, or was there a traitor? If so, who?

  Sarah shook her head. That was not for her to decide, surrounded as she was by the enemy, on her way to a prison and interrogation. She must say nothing, for as long as she could. That’s all she had to remember now. She was Cécile Lamont from Limoges, who had worked for a butcher in Poitiers. They would eventually break that cover, but they must not break her soul.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kate looked at the bathroom tap. It had been dripping overnight and had formed an icicle. She called Lizzy to see. ‘The hot tap works, so the pipes aren’t frozen, thank heavens, but it will be best to use the kitchen sink to wash in. It’s a shame that we can’t sleep in the kitchen too – the air was so cold last night.’

  ‘The sink is too small to sleep in, Auntie Kate.’

  Ah, thought Kate. The first joke since Lizzy had heard the news about her father.

  Lizzy reached out and broke off a piece of ice, watching it slowly melt on the palm of her hand. ‘Perhaps it will snow at Christmas. It’s only a few weeks, but it’s cold for November, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but it is December very soon, so perhaps that explains it. Come on, let’s dress in layers, because it’s no warmer at school. We can have omelette for breakfast.’

  Lizzy headed for her bedroom while Kate hurried downstairs. She heard Lizzy call, ‘I’d rather a boiled egg, please. But a soft one.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Kate smiled. It was the first time the child had bothered about food. Now, let’s see if she actually eats it, she thought.

  Lizzy did, as though she hadn’t eaten for days, which she hadn’t, not really, once the truth had sunk in.

  Kate decided she’d nip out of school to reseat the tap after her reading session with the six-year-olds. She should have done it before, but what with finalising the choreography, and furious rehearsals every evening, for her at least as producer, the show date of 20th December seemed ridiculously close.

  As she drank her tea she wondered where Sarah was, and if she was safe. She allowed herself to think about this every morning, but tried to keep it contained to this time, because the worry didn’t make anyone any safer. It didn’t work, because her sleep was increasingly disrupted by thoughts of her sister being chased by the Germans. For some reason, she had come to feel that if the show was a success, and earned money for the war, it might pay for her sister’s safety. But who was to be the arbitrator? Tom’s God? It was at this point that she always gave up thinking and simply put one foot in front of the other.

  Lizzy’s plate was empty. ‘Mr Manners will be enormously pleased with you, Lizzy Baxter,’ Kate said, leaving the dishes in the bowl to soak. They could be dealt with after school.

  ‘I wonder if there will be another letter from Mum?’ Lizzy said, standing in front of the range, flapping her gloves to warm them up.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kate.

  A telegram had arrived the day after Sergeant Jones’s visit, informing Sarah and Lizzy of Derek’s death, and Sarah’s letter had not referred to the news in any way. Lizzy took Kate’s reason at face value – the telegram hadn’t yet caught up with her mum.

  They dressed up in scarves, hats, gloves and two pairs of socks, because wellington bo
ots were so cold. She wondered what Brucie would think of his glamour puss now, as she opened the front door. There on the doorstep were two eggs, left by some kind villager for Lizzy, to help her overcome her loss. It’s what happened when someone was hurt, here in Little Worthy. There was never a note, never a need for thanks. Lizzy took them into the kitchen, and together they left the house.

  They joined the Billings children at their gate and waved to Fran, who had sailors’ costumes to complete for the evening. The children slid on the frozen puddles, while Kate thought of Russia turning around the German invasion and Stalingrad holding firm. Good old mother winter freezing the invading troops where they bunkered down. What did it mean that the Germans were now occupying Vichy France? Was Sarah there? No more questions; it wouldn’t help.

  They joined others as they entered the school yard. The girls went through one door into the school, and the boys through another. The infants used the girls’ entrance. All so orderly, and Stella’s decree was that there was no need to queue in this weather. It was exactly the same pattern as the one she had grown up with. What would her father think about her teaching here?

  She moved on from that thought.

  Today Kate was teaching and reseating a tap; tomorrow she’d be washing clothes and mangling. At the thought she winced. She climbed the steps into the school, and one child rushed past her, knocking against her. She gasped at the pain in her back, doubling over, holding her breath. She reached for the door and clung to the handle for a moment. The pain eased a little, and she straightened and walked down the corridor. Stella was in the staffroom, wearing the look she always had when she’d received a letter from Bradley. They were few and far between, but somehow more precious because of it.

  ‘Rehearsal at six, rather than six thirty – is this still all right with you, O tap dancer supreme?’