by Milly Adams
Sarah drank her coffee and ate two biscuits while he watched and waited. At last she said, ‘I need proof that my Derek – Derek Smith – really lives. If you give me that, then you will realise, because you have done it before, that I can’t just walk out of here, for the others would suspect. I will need to escape, perhaps from a moving vehicle. Perhaps it could crash not too far from Rouen? So I can contact my group and resume my place, and find out about others. Family is all, I think you would agree.’
Major Fischer peaked his hands, nodding. ‘Indeed, I would expect your conditions.’
Sarah was led away. She returned again the next morning. When she entered, the major gestured to the usual chair, reached into a drawer and withdrew a form. He passed it to her. She drew in a deep breath. The form gave a prisoner number and the name ‘Derek Smith’. She nodded to herself, her mind quite clear now. They did not have her Derek Baxter – her trick had worked. Items had been ticked on the form. Health: tick. Well-being: tick. Wife: tick. Capture: Tours. Crimes: none.
She folded it. ‘I may keep this? It is all I have of him.’
The major hesitated. ‘If you agree to work with us, then it will not be all you have, for he will be returned to you in due course.’
She said, gripping the paper, ‘I will work with you, if you bring him here now, and thereafter send me proof that he lives. Each day you must do that.’
He countered, ‘You are in no position to bargain.’ But she could tell from his eyes that it was what he expected. The tension built. He said, ‘Deliver your first piece of information to the drop station, and then we will repay you with proof. Not before. He will be safe, but only until then.’
She nodded.
He went on, his eyes sharp, ‘Had you been happy just to accept, I would have known that I could not trust you. You are to be our person on the inside. It will pain you, but it would be worse to be the cause of your husband’s death. You have to learn to trust me, as our arrangement must be long-lasting. I repeat, trust me.’
Trust me, I’m a doctor, like Dr Bates, she almost said. She had thought about how all this could be done, sitting in the cell, her mind at long last crystal-clear, staring into the darkness. Lives were at stake, and she must get this right.
‘I will,’ she assured him. ‘But I am not Mrs Smith, I am Cécile Lamont, and I repeat: we must create an escape for it to be realistic. If you follow me, be cautious, but there really is no need, because I can’t be responsible for killing my husband. Who could?’
‘So Madame Lamont, we must proceed without delay,’ Major Fischer ordered. His eyes were without hate. Instead she could see satisfaction, and contempt.
Later that morning Sarah remained in her filthy clothes, but was given back her coat and woollen gloves. They drove hell-for-leather towards the outskirts of Rouen in a black saloon. Would Bernard attempt a rescue? After all, the traitor in the group could be telling him of her transfer, putting it down to ‘intelligence’. But no, that same traitor would want the Germans’ plan to work so would say nothing.
Ah yes, the traitor, for there must be one, or how else could they know about Derek? But the traitor didn’t know her husband’s surname. She closed her eyes briefly, relieved that she had not mentioned that detail to Pierre as they stood that day in the woods.
Pierre it was, and he must be stopped; Pierre, who must have alerted the Germans to the drop, after which she had been captured. Pierre, whose use to the Germans was limited because he did not know anything about the other circuits. She did, though, or could find out through Bernard. How clever it all was.
She braced herself as they approached the junction and the driver called, ‘Prepare.’ The expected truck came from a side road. Her driver stood on the brakes, skidded, careered into the corner of the house, spun round. The doors fell open and the guards half fell out, as though stunned. The officer in the passenger seat turned. ‘Remember, your husband dies, the moment you fail to do as we tell you.’
Sarah clambered over the guards, as heads peered from house windows. She ran like the wind, tearing back towards Rouen, taking the lesser roads, slipping into doorways, checking for shadows. There seemed to be none, but there probably were, because they knew they had not actually got Derek as a hostage. However, they thought she believed them, so they could be letting her run free. It didn’t matter either way; she would be careful.
At last she reached the default drop box, the one she was to use if ever she was in trouble; the one no-one else knew about; the one she and Bernard had set up. She had written her note, in a code that Bernard had created for just this sort of emergency. Even if it killed her, she must protect the rest of the circuit by revealing the true situation to Bernard. She would hide in a place that only she knew. If she was being watched, it was what they would expect.
She received his reply the next day, at the second drop they had set up. She stole a bicycle and set off, cycling out of Rouen to meet Bernard and the remains of the group at the dropping zone. Her feet hurt, her bruises were still obvious, not to mention her swollen split lip. People looked at her strangely. She said to a fellow cyclist at a crossroads, ‘I skidded on the ice and went over the handlebars.’ He had shrugged, which was so normal that she smiled.
Snow lay on the verges and had drifted against the hedges, though it had largely thawed on the roads. She breathed in the cold, fresh air, loving it, unworried by the thought of shadows. The Boche must already know about this group from Pierre, so they wouldn’t go to any great lengths to follow her, when they could pick them up at any time. No, it was the others in the circuit they needed. She thought about young, energetic Pierre. Had he done it for money? Was he a Nazi? Or was a relative a hostage? It didn’t matter. He must be stopped.
She turned onto the track. Once at the copse, she left the bicycle propped up against a tree, just as Bernard had instructed. There was no guard. Perhaps further in? She hurried as much as she could towards the charcoal kiln. As she neared it, she heard a rustle to the left. She spun round. It was Pierre. He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘Bernard has just told us you escaped – it is such good news that you are safe. Many of us have dispersed already. Bernard is to tell those who remain what to do next. First, we are to move the last of the containers. I am to remain on guard.’
She left him and made for the centre of the clearing. Bernard waited by the kiln. He took her hands gently, kissed her on both cheeks, then held her to him as though she was made of porcelain. He whispered, ‘You are a clever girl. Yes, we had already moved most of the supplies. Arnaud and Renée will take you on from here, immediately. We have to wait for the next new moon, then you will fly out, as I always intended. I will see you tonight at the new safe house. Now go.’
‘Pierre?’
‘Leave him to me. The others have already disappeared, their task is over. We have the new George to fly out too. He’s in hiding.’
‘And the rest of the circuit?’
‘It’s safe, and I will be with you, for some of the time at least. Now go, and be careful. We didn’t spot any shadows, but you never know.’ He had been talking for her ears only.
She left, slipping away with Arnaud and Renée, crawling along the soggy ditch leading to the stream, keeping below the bank, her knees cracking through the ice. At the bottom, they eased into the icy fast-flowing water. There had obviously been rainfall recently. How much one missed when kept in a windowless cell, she thought. They struggled against the flow, keeping below the bank for a half-mile or so, growing colder and colder. Sarah tried not to cough, and when she did, she held her gloved hand over her mouth. Her fingers had stopped throbbing because they were numb. It was a relief. A raptor circled above them. Would it give them away to any watchers? It disappeared.
Renée scrambled up the bank, keeping low. Sarah pressed herself against the bank, because a farmer was trundling a manure cart along a track beside the stream. She could hear the jangle of harness as the two horses thrust themselves forward.
> Renée beckoned to the other two. Sarah shook her head. Arnaud whispered, ‘The farmer is one of us.’ This was what they had supposed about Pierre, she thought. The farmer eased down from the cart and called his dog, which had been loping alongside.
‘Come,’ Arnaud insisted. What alternative was there? She scrambled up as the farmer and dog wandered off.
‘He will check bird traps,’ Renée whispered. Arnaud took the farmer’s place on the cart. Renée hissed, ‘Come, Cécile.’
Sarah followed as Renée eased up a corner of tarpaulin from the edge of the cart, holding it high enough for her to burrow beneath it. Renée followed. The weight of the manure bore down on the two women. Renée half laughed. ‘It might dry us, and perhaps keep us warm.’
Sarah told herself she must not cough, or mind the pain as the weight pressed on her ribs and bruises. Arnaud called to the horses, and they lurched along over fields, heading into the unknown. He stopped at last and lifted the tarpaulin. They were in the yard of a farmer’s supplier, on the edge of a small town. Renée covered Sarah’s face with heavy make-up, obtained from who-knew-where.
Together they strolled to the station, arm-in-arm, in still-damp clothes and waited for a train to Le Mans. From there, Sarah would be taken on to a safe place, after which she knew she would not see anyone from the group again, except for Bernard. Pierre would be dead by now. Soon Sarah would be home. Please God.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tom cycled like a man possessed, immediately after Holy Communion, determined to reach the hospital and return in time for morning service. He took the steps into the foyer two at a time, then dashed up the stairs leading to the first floor on which Nightingale Ward was situated. He approached almost at a run, looking through the porthole windows of the double doors of the ward, meeting the face of Sister Newsome, who had been on duty on the night of the operation. She shook her head and pointed at her watch. ‘Visiting is at two this afternoon.’
He stood his ground, panting, sweat beading his forehead, his scarf dragging on the floor. He snatched it off, bellowing through the glass, ‘Please, Sister, I am Kate Watson’s spiritual advisor, and it’s Sunday after all, and she’s had a second operation, and I need to see her.’
The sister sniffed, then barked, ‘I believe you used the “spiritual advisor” bit on the night of the first operation, Vicar, when you made an infernal nuisance of yourself. You need to be more creative. Five minutes.’
She held the door open for him, and Tom felt he should tiptoe across the shiny and spotless floor, past women who slept, or read, or moaned quietly. Kate was on the right and had a sick-bowl at her side. She was pale. He sat with her, on the chair set up in front of the bedside cabinet. He had left flowers yesterday with the porter, and they were in a vase amongst many others ranged on the windowsill behind her. Most were chrysanthemums, their smell evocative of St Thomas’s Church. Kate wouldn’t like that. He took hold of her hand.
She opened her eyes, saw him and smiled. ‘I feel very sick.’
‘It’s the ether, I expect. I felt the same when …’ He touched his face.
‘You never did get the parrot.’
He grimaced. ‘I’ve got you as my nemesis instead, to keep me on my toes.’
Moving her head slightly on the pristine and crisp pillows. ‘I thought a nemesis pulled you down?’
‘Then I’m wrong; you are my taskmaster, and a hard one at that, and you pull me up.’
Her blonde hair needed a wash, she had dark circles under her eyes and her brow was furrowed. But Tom still felt he had never seen anyone so beautiful. He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Dearest Kate,’ he whispered against it. ‘They had to go in again. They’d missed a bit. Just like you – you see, the shrapnel wouldn’t be controlled.’
The sister’s voice sounded from the end of the bed. ‘Much as I suspected: “spiritual advisor”, my Aunt Fanny. Now off you go, Vicar, time is up. Come later today, why don’t you? We’ll clean her up this time, poor wee thing, but she’ll be much more comfortable with those nasty little bits of Hitler’s nonsense quite gone.’
She was beckoning to him, and Tom didn’t resist. He laid Kate’s hand back on the counterpane. She was asleep again. He allowed himself to be marched out of the ward.
Sister Newsome waved him off at the double doors. ‘She’ll be up and about in no time, as good as new; or at least much better than she must have been feeling for months. She’s bothering her head about a show or something, but I would guess she’ll be treading the boards before you know where you are, and with her courage, nary a twinge will she feel. It was a close-run thing, though, young man. Someone needs to keep an eye on her. You can’t leave everything to your boss. God, I mean, not her.’ She nodded at Kate. He laughed.
The sister disappeared, the double doors swinging shut behind her. Well, Tom thought, as he started for home on his bicycle, no-one needed to worry any more, because he wouldn’t be taking his eyes off Kate Watson from now until the sky fell down.
The wind was blasting through his jacket. Why the hell hadn’t he worn a coat, for a scarf only went so far. He shut the front door behind him and Mrs B came out of the kitchen, with a steaming mug of tea. ‘Here, drink this while you walk to the church. I have your vestments. How is she?’
She jammed on her hat and coat, as he sipped his tea. Together they half ran down the path to the side door of the church, into his St Thomas’s snug, as he called the vestry. He handed Mrs B his empty mug; half the tea had splashed down his trousers, but at least it had been warm. ‘You are a gem, Mrs B. Kate is feeling sick. Were those your chrysanthemums on the windowsill? She seems to have a lot.’ He was shrugging into his vestments.
Mrs B tutted. ‘Come here, you silly boy. Just look at your hair.’ He bent his head, as she tugged it into some order. Then, extraordinarily, she kissed his cheek, the scarred one. ‘You are a good boy.’ She stalked away now, into the church, heading for the organ, because William Hall had decided his rheumatics had got the better of him.
Tom hurried to the church door and stood in the porch, welcoming in his flock. Each asked how Kate was. Each asked if she would be back for the concert, especially the children. He told them what Sister Newsome had said. Each grinned. ‘I bet she’s giving ’em hell,’ Percy, the ARP warden, said.
Tom nodded. ‘I dare say.’
He had chosen as the first hymn ‘Love divine, all loves excelling’. His sermon was also about love. He stood quietly for a moment in the pulpit, wanting to tell his flock about the wrong done to Kate in the past, but that wasn’t his truth to dispense. He read Matthew 22, verses 36–9, then leaned forward on the pulpit.
‘We are fighting a war to defend our sovereignty, and our democracy. These two give us the power, and the right, to say and think what we wish, but remember the question asked in Matthew, chapter 22. “What is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
‘You see, even though we have the freedom to speak and think, we need to consider our priorities. The first priority is that we should love our God with all our hearts and mind; but the second and, importantly, the one we should remember, is that we must love our neighbours as ourselves. Love is crucial, understanding too. Imagine our villages without it. There would be no gifts on doorsteps to show our love and compassion, no willingness to help, and understand. There would be no—’
Lizzy called from her pew, where she sat with Mrs Summers, ‘There’d be no chrysanthemums in the hospital. Aunt Kate has lots, or that’s what they said when Mrs B and I left some.’
He smiled down at her, as others laughed gently. He smiled at Kate’s child, born of assault; but dearly loved by her biological mother, and her adoptive parents. How could the truth become known, without untold damage? But did that mean that he should do nothing?
The congregation waited. He continued, ‘So, sometimes gifts say without words what people mean, that the past – whatever it might be perceived as, or guessed at – is long gone. It is the present that remai
ns and leads to the future.’
He looked across at the congregation. They were thinking, with furrowed brows. Mrs Summers smiled at him, nodding briefly. Did she know? Perhaps she had guessed? He turned to Mrs B, whose face was grave. She too nodded, her eyes fixed on his.
‘Indeed,’ she said. She knew, but of course would not speak of it.
‘In the name of the Father … Now, hymn number three-seven-four: “Help us to help each other, Lord, each other’s cross to bear”.’
They all sang as though they would raise the roof. At the end of the service, before he sent them on their way, he spoke the Prayer of St Francis, and their voices were strong as they joined him: ‘Make me a channel of your peace: where there is hatred, let me bring you love; where there is injury, your pardon, Lord, and where there is doubt …’
For the first time, as he gave the blessing, Tom felt at one with his congregation, for they were good people. They did not shirk now from looking him full in the face; they quietly fought their own wars, not to mention the big, all-encompassing one that was raging, seemingly without end. But end it would, one way or another, and then they would continue to wake up each day and do their best.
He waited at the door, shaking hands, arranging to see them at rehearsals, and telling Percy he would take Kate’s place on Tuesday nights, to do the rounds in her ARP helmet. He shook his head when Fran Billings asked if Kate had stopped being sick.
‘So you’ve been?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘So many of us telephoned after the second operation that a harridan banned us again, and the snow-line to pass the news was reinstated.’
‘Ah, that would be Sister Newsome. I think she breathes fire on a regular basis, but I’d want her looking after Kate in preference to anyone else. Her patients come first, and the rest of us can go about our business.’
Mrs Summers joined them. ‘A good service, Tom, and a nice short sermon. Dear old Hastings did go on so, and then those temporary bods liked to give us a good verbal thrashing, so we couldn’t even nod off. You’re not moving on, I hope? The village wouldn’t like that.’
