by Milly Adams
The doctor examined her, his stethoscope cold on her chest. He pressed here, there. He looked closely at her fingers, and laid her hands gently on the bed. ‘Bastard,’ he hissed. He moved from her sight, pressing her hips, her legs, lifting the sheet, which was all she could bear on her toes and feet. ‘Bastards,’ he hissed again.
She said, ‘I am alive. I am lucky, I am grateful.’ Her voice was a croak, a husk of herself.
The woman stroked her hair, like Bernard, and like Derek.
The doctor came to her. He was old, his eyes deep-set, his hands trembled.
She said, ‘You are brave. I thank you, but you must not come again. They could …’ She coughed until she could barely breathe.
The doctor was saying to the elderly woman, ‘My love, we can do little, but it will be easier for her if she stays raised, for the coughing at least. Pneumonia, infected fingers and toes, cracked ribs, perhaps a damaged spleen. We can’t risk hospital. Soon she will leave. We will, between us, keep her alive till then.’
‘Of course.’
The doctor touched Sarah’s arm. ‘You will soon be home, Adèle.’
She wouldn’t believe that. She could be betrayed again, and these two with her. She wanted to be in a barn somewhere, alone, like an animal creeping away to live or die. She had lasted almost three months, the life-expectancy of an agent. She repeated, ‘I’m lucky.’
She slept and woke when darkness had fallen. The shutters were closed, and a blanket had been draped over them, like a blackout. Ah, a blackout. Was she home? No, she was here, being hidden, but what if …? She slept again, then woke to increased pain. How could it be worse, when she thought she had reached the heights?
The woman, whose name she did not know, but whom in her mind she called Madame Lavender, whispered, ‘Be still, my child, let me care for you.’
She bathed Sarah’s hands by the glow of an oil lamp, before soaking her fingertips in warm water. They stung. Sarah flinched.
Madame Lavender murmured, ‘It will help; sometimes it hurts to make things better.’ It was what her mother had said. Madame Lavender gently patted her fingers dry, before laying them down on some gauze. She moved to her feet, sponged them, then laid a soaking flannel over them. It stung. The woman said, ‘Salt water. It is all we have. It is good, it will help.’
‘Thank you, but I must go elsewhere and hide. We are trained to do so. This isn’t fair on you.’
The woman put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh, you must allow me to help. It is my wish.’
Sarah slept.
The light was streaming through the windows. Another day, but her chest was worse. She tossed and turned, dozed, and woke to see the door was ajar. Should it be? She heard voices, a laugh. Pierre? She sat upright and groaned with pain, retched. ‘Pierre?’ He should be dead. He had betrayed her. ‘Pierre.’ It was a scream. ‘Pierre.’ Another scream. She slept and saw his face, his eyes so blue, peering down, his hands busy on her sheet, a cool flannel on her forehead. She struggled to sit, but he held her down. No, no. She felt his breath on her face, but he said nothing, just smiled, then whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ No, no, she tried to say, but no sound came.
She slept, and woke to a sunny day. It was so often a sunny day, or was it just that she saw so much of the sky? Madame Lavender helped her from her bed, as she did three times a day, and to the bathroom off her bedroom, then left, saying, ‘Call me if you need help.’
There were some things she must do alone, Sarah had said. She finished, stood at the sink and stared in the mirror, as she did every morning. Who was this woman with a black-and-blue face? What would her mother think?
She would fold Sarah in her arms, as Derek would have done, and Bernard. What would her father have done? Told her it was her fault? She should not have misbehaved? ‘But I haven’t, Daddy. It is Kate who did that.’
But Kate hadn’t. No, she hadn’t. Lizzy was Dr Bates’s child, and he should burn in hell for hurting little Katie, but what could they do? For Lizzy must never know.
She returned to the bedroom, exhausted, her chest rattling. She crawled into bed and slept. When she awoke it was dusk, though the shutters were not closed. The moon was no longer a slice. Soon it would be full and she could go home, but it was too hard to hope. She turned from the window, and a man sat in Madame Lavender’s chair, deep in the shadows. She shrank from him. Pierre? No, he was dead. Bernard had killed him. Pierre was a traitor. But she had seen him, here. No, don’t be silly; it was in her head, as the shapes in the basement cell had been.
‘Sleeping Beauty wakes.’ It was Bernard. He leaned forward. ‘Soon the Lysander will come.’
‘Am I safe?’
He shrugged. ‘As are any of us.’
She hated herself for having asked. Was she a coward, a fool?
He said, ‘No, of course not. You are ill, and hurt.’ So she had spoken aloud. He leaned nearer, and laid his hand on her arm. ‘I have news I should tell you. Before the new “George” signed off, he was told that Derek is confirmed dead. So he is safe, after all. In a sense.’
She slept and Derek was with her, in the garden at Melbury Cottage. He was swinging Lizzy. Poor Lizzy, who would look after her? ‘Well,’ Derek said, ‘you, of course.’
Of course, she was going home, and how could she have left Lizzy at all? How could she? Had she done any good here – had she kept her country, and therefore Lizzy, safer?
She felt Bernard’s hand on her arm. ‘Yes, without a doubt. Never doubt that you have played your part, Adèle.’
She slept, and wept, and slept again, but she couldn’t really see Derek; she hadn’t been able to for months. He didn’t come in her dreams again. Lizzy did, and Kate, her hair shining and blonde as she sang. She heard her sister’s laughter as she played with Lizzy. How, though, because she hadn’t really seen them together? Because she just knew that although her sister had been despised and cast out, she was like their mother and would love a helpless child.
She woke to Madame Lavender standing by her. ‘Ah,’ Madame Lavender said, ‘chicken broth, you smelled it, I think.’ There it was, on the side table, steaming in the cold room. Sarah moved her arms, which did not ache so much. Her chest was quieter. Perhaps she was even hungry. Now she felt that she might live, if she was allowed to.
Madame Lavender spoon-fed her, after tying a large napkin around her neck.
‘How can I thank you?’ Sarah asked, when the soup was finished.
‘You have, by finishing your soup. It is the first thing you have eaten in days. Soon, my dear, you will be safe.’
‘But you will remain, Madame Lavender?’ She looked at the elderly woman, who had piercing blue eyes and a smile like …? Who? She couldn’t remember. She had fulsome white hair, coiled in a French pleat.
Madame Lavender shrugged, but what French person didn’t? ‘I will remain. There is more work to do, but you have completed yours, and paid a price. It is time you go home to … someone?’ There was a question in her eyes, which disappeared immediately.
Sarah just smiled, because this woman should know nothing about her. It was safer for everyone.
Now it was night and she lay watching the ever more spherical moon. Soon, if God and the Germans allowed, she would be home.
The next day Bernard came again, with the doctor, who brushed aside Sarah’s protestations about his safety and examined her. Bernard stood by the window, looking at the roofs and saying, ‘When I was at school, our art teacher would tell us to look at the roofs, study the angles against the sky. He had been in the trenches, and had frequently viewed the world from slits in the ground.’
The doctor finished, tucked the sheet and eiderdown up around Sarah’s shoulders. He joined Bernard at the window. They talked quietly together. The doctor came to her, lifted her hand gently and kissed it. ‘Goodbye, Madame, we will not meet again, but a doctor must see you on your return. You will require an operation, but I believe you will return to full health, in body at least. Your mi
nd, my dear, might take longer. You must be patient with yourself.’
He left. Bernard came across and sank into the wicker chair. She watched as he leaned back, closing his eyes. He was drawn, tired, but then he sat straighter and looked at her, his usual smile in his eyes as he said, ‘Our good doctor should be air-lifted out with us, as he is a Jew, but he refuses. He is sure that he can remain in hiding and work for the good of people like you, until the allies prevail.’
The goodness of people stimulated too much emotion; it made Sarah want to moan with grief, and worry for their safety. Instead she said, ‘Air-lifted out with us?’
‘Yes, us. I am coming home, for a while at least. Though it is winter, it can be hot out there.’ He nodded at the window, and shook his hand as though it burned.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘You can tell that yourself. Just look at the moon.’ He rose, but at the door he turned round. ‘Your work is done, Sarah. You are compromised, contaminated – whatever you like to call it – as are the group, but you know that. The circuit remains, though.’
She picked at the sheet with her bound fingers. ‘Pierre? Did you kill him?’
‘Don’t worry about Pierre.’
‘I dreamed I saw him. I screamed. He pinned me down with the sheets.’
Bernard didn’t look surprised. ‘You must have been delirious. Fever does that to you.’
He left and she stared at the door. Was she safe? Why wasn’t Bernard surprised? It was Pierre who was the traitor, wasn’t it? Or were there two of them?
She slept, but fitfully.
The next day she made herself stumble around the room even though it brought on coughing fits. But she must become fit, just in case. She peered from the window. It was at the rear of the building. The roof sloped, but another roof cut across at an angle. She could make it, just, if she built up her strength. It would require a drop to the ground. The Germans would be back and front, but at least she’d die fighting, not caught like a rat in a trap.
She checked the wardrobe. Her shoes were there, cleaned, and her clothes, laundered. The door began to open and she stumbled to the bed, coughing. Madame Lavender entered. ‘Bravo, you take exercise. It helps to keep the blood flowing.’
Sarah lay back on the pillows. Her ribs and belly hurt. She was sick over the sheets.
Madame Lavender came. ‘No more walking. Hush, hush, I will change the sheets. Here, if you can, sit in the chair.’
She could. Madame stripped the bed and bundled the sheets out of the door. Sarah heard the key turn in the lock. Oh God, they were locking her in. Within five minutes Madame Lavender had returned, and Sarah was halfway to the door, through which she intended to escape.
Madame Lavender changed the sheets. ‘Now, you must come to bed, please, my dear. Take your medicine – it helps you sleep. You look agitated.’
Sarah sat on the bed, looking at the medicine. She had taken some every day. Was this why she slept? She nodded. ‘Yes, I will, but please do not let me hold you up, and I’m so sorry for giving you extra work.’
She poured the sleeping draught into the sink when Madame Lavender left the room, turning the key in the lock, as she must always have done. Were they all traitors: Pierre, Madame Lavender and Bernard; perhaps even the doctor? Why else would they lock the door? Were they getting her better so that the Gestapo could start once more? Would she ever see Lizzy again? Was Derek really dead, or was Bernard lying?
Sarah wept, frightened. She was alone, so alone, and she wanted Kate, because she never lied.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was 17th December, just three days before the concert, when Kate received Stan’s letter:
Hey you
We’ll be down for the concert, just let us know the songs. By ‘we’, I mean Roberto and Elliot and me. Do not, and I repeat not, thank Brucie, because he is kicking up like a pimp who’s lost his tarts. We intend to be there at midday. I gather it will be a cast of 5,000, so presumably you and your vicar will produce five loaves and two fishes. I prefer alcohol, but you know that.
Your pal
Stan
PS Tell your vicar we expect a free pass through the Pearly Gates.
It was the school holidays, so Kate waved the letter at Lizzy, who was practising her tap shuffle on the kitchen floor, which would never be the same again.
‘We have three more coming down from the Blue Cockatoo, Lizzy.’
Lizzy looked up, frowning with concentration. ‘Three what?’ she panted.
Kate laughed. ‘Musicians: Stan on saxophone, Roberto on piano and Elliot on bass.’
Lizzy stopped, but her frown remained. ‘But what about Mrs B? She is our piano player.’
Kate was aghast. ‘Of course. Oh, heavens, what on earth can we do?’ She stuffed the letter into her pocket. ‘I’ll have to stop them.’
Lizzy stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Oh, Aunt Kate, stop fussing. We just need to think – or that’s what you always say.’
The pair of them stood looking at one another, then Lizzy shook her head. ‘You’re right, but we do need to fuss, and two heads aren’t enough, so we must go and talk to the vicar, but we mustn’t let Mrs B hear.’
They put their coats on. One of the paperchains had come unstuck from the picture rail and dangled on the floor. Kate stopped to hook it up, but Lizzy shouted, ‘Not now, Aunt Kate; we haven’t a moment to lose, and you mustn’t bend and stretch.’ She had already opened the front door.
Kate followed, holding this amazing child’s hand as they hurried along the road.
‘I’m nine now, Aunt Kate. I don’t need my hand held.’
‘Ah, but I need to hold it, because I could slip, and so could you, and we both need our feet in prime condition. I’m not letting go, you little wretch.’ They were both laughing as they waved to Mrs Williams, who was hurrying to Percy with a pot of paint. Was it the red he needed for one of the flats? The backcloth, an ocean-going liner, was complete, but it had to be, for there were only three days to go.
They spun into the vicarage and round to the back door. Kate knocked briskly and, as always, waited to be invited in. One only went so far with Mrs B.
‘Remember, say nothing.’
The door opened. Lizzy pushed forward. ‘Hello, Mrs B. We need to talk to the vicar, about something secret.’
Kate sighed as Mrs B raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I suggest you go through to the snug. He’s trying to catch up on his correspondence. He’s been dancing that wretched tango for what seems hours, on the hall floor. At least he’s not doing a tap dance, or I dread to think what state the floorboards would be in. It’s all your fault, Miss Kate Watson.’ She led them, smiling, to the snug door. ‘But I have to say, he’s a smarty-pants at it now.’
Lizzy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, you said “pants”.’
‘Well, so I did.’ She left them.
Lizzy grimaced at Kate. ‘I think this concert is making people very naughty.’
‘Yes, and I think I’m looking at the naughtiest. Who said we mustn’t let Mrs B know what the matter was, and there you are – saying we must talk to Mr Rees about a secret.’
Lizzy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I did, didn’t I?’ They knocked. Lizzy said, ‘We’ll get her flowers, and that can be the secret.’
‘Flowers in December?’
Tom called, ‘Come in, if that’s my favourite woman; otherwise, please go away.’
Lizzy looked up at Kate. ‘I think love makes people soppy.’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s the favourite woman’s niece, so do I have to go away?’
Kate pulled one of her plaits. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Then my two favourite women may enter.’ Lizzy grinned and opened the door, skipping down the steps.
Tom came to meet them, ruffling Lizzy’s hair, then picked up each plait. ‘Perhaps I should tie these together and hang you from a peg.’
‘Then I couldn’t be in the chorus.’
He laughed. ‘Kate, wh
at are we to do with this monster?’ He gestured to one of the chairs. ‘Sit, Lizzy, there’s a book you might like. Peter Pan. Have a scan.’
‘We have a problem: a secret problem,’ Lizzy said. ‘We thought three heads, not just two, would be better.’
Tom raised his eyebrows at Kate. ‘Oh, so no Peter Pan, but you have something pressing that your local vicar may help with?’
Kate explained. He raised his eyebrows again. This time he gestured Kate to a chair too. She sat, while Tom took his place at the writing desk. Kate leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. ‘I can’t hurt Mrs B. I’d rather cancel the boys.’
Tom turned his pen over and over, deep in thought. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what have we in the band?’ He ticked off the instruments. ‘Comb, two spoons, several recorders, saxophone, bass, drums and piano, but no violin?’
Violin? Kate shook her head. Why would they have a violin? Tom cocked his head at her. ‘You won’t know, I suppose, though perhaps little Miss Know-it-all sitting opposite me, aged nine, might. What other instrument does Mrs B play, which is, actually, her forte?’
Lizzy leapt to her feet. ‘I knew you would have an answer. I expect it’s because you are close to God, and He whispers in your ear. Come on, Aunt Kate, we can tell Mrs B, because she plays the violin.’
Kate was laughing quietly as Tom looked heavenwards, presumably for help. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ she said, to the man she loved.
‘Indeed, now out: the pair of you. I have work to do, if I’m to make the rehearsal tonight. What on earth are we going to do when this all-consuming shenanigans is over?’
Lizzy was standing on the top step, tapping her foot impatiently. Kate went to Tom and kissed his mouth, saying against it, ‘I love you, Mr Rees.’
He kissed her back. ‘Go, before we shock Miss Elizabeth Baxter. And I love you too.’
Lizzy sighed. ‘Oh, come on, we haven’t got time.’
Kate hurried, her back remarkably free of pain. Her stitches pulled, just a bit, but otherwise: virtually nothing.
