‘You’re amazing, May. Do you really want to take on a new-born baby at your time of life?’
‘What do you mean – at my time of life? I’m in a better state of health than you, my girl.’
‘I know that. It’s just that you always seem to have room for one more.’
‘I just happen to believe that the best thing invented is a family – the bigger, the better.’ Even though Eve couldn’t subscribe to May’s belief, for May it was true. And what May believed, Eve needed to get her through.
‘By the way, I brought you in the Hampshire Chronicle. There’s a piece in there about Alice’s husband.’
CORONER’S COURT
The inquiry into the death of James Gunner – land agent – of Wickham took place this week.
Gunner’s wife, Alice, gave evidence that her husband had been unwell in recent months and had taken to walking in woodlands other than those on the estate which was his place of work.
Readers may remember that Mr Gunner had been discovered with a severe injury to his head, drowned in a local pond known as ‘Swallit’. At first the police were puzzled by Gunner’s presence at the pond, his head injury, and the fact that his clothing was in disarray. The coroner saw nothing unusual for a man working, as he did, well away from public view to relieve himself when he was about his work.
Many trees in that area had become rotten and a good number of branches had fallen at that time in the area around the pond, and it appeared likely that Gunner had been struck by one. Blood was discovered on a broken branch.
A verdict of death by misadventure was returned.
When May had gone. Eve reread the piece and wondered about the truth. At least the coroner was satisfied and the case was closed. Eve knew she would never ask Bar about that day.
Epilogue
France, 1943
November. A clear night. The Germans have picked up the trace as the Lysander crosses the English Channel and comes within its range. The pilot tips the nose, ducking under the radar.
The plane comes in low over the trees. Two women and one man wearing cork helmets and parachutes hang on to webbing close to the bay doors. They are waiting to pick out the signal lights. Dangerous for those signalling. Dangerous for the parachutists. Dangerous for the pilot.
The Lysander makes one more turn and then – there it is! A winking light, just where it is supposed to be. The plane goes as low as it is safe to do, the engines sounding so loud to those waiting to jump that they feel they must be alerting every guard on sentry duty. But it is a bitterly cold night. Rivers are frozen, the farmlands from where the signal flickers are frosted well below the topsoil. It is hoped that the enemy patrols are holed up, warming their hands on tin mugs of ersatz coffee. The pilot sticks a thumb up and chutes with bulky equipment are tipped out to sway down ahead of the parachutists, who follow. One. Two. Three.
This is her tenth sortie.
She pulls the stick back, watching the dials, and climbs, hoping that everything will hold together until she has crossed the English coast.
Looking at her luminous watch she sees that Dimitri should by now have ended his long journey from Scotland to Hampshire. No matter how late he arrived, he will take the stairs at Roman’s two at a time and pick up Louisa from her cot and sit on their bed cradling her, observing every minute change in her since his last visit.
By morning she will be there too, listening to his running commentary on what Louisa has done, how Louisa smiled at him, how clever she is, what she did in the bath, what she did with the present he will certainly have brought for her.
Ray and Bar and the children have gone to live close to Ray’s new job as a trade union official in the West Country, so, except for keeping Ted going, May has only Louisa to fuss over, and Dimitri when he pays his frequent visits, and Eve, when she can be spared.
Now she is out over the sea. Elated. Self-sufficient. Proud of herself. Confident. Successful. Alone.
Her destiny is in her own hands, as are the lives of the agents she flies in and out of Occupied France.
This, for now, is Eve Anders’ private paradise.
Author’s Note
The Face of Eve is a work of fiction but it is based on fact.
The Priory Finishing School and The House by the Sea are modelled on various houses on the Beaulieu estate in Hampshire, which were used for the training of SOE agents.
The FiFi, or ‘courtesans with good manners’, existed, and although mentioned by Professor Michael Foot in a definitive history of the SOE, like so much of women’s history, the detail is lost. Whilst writing this novel I discovered an ex-FiFi living in France, but she wasn’t willing to talk. Who could blame her sixty years on?
There was a haven for the crowned heads of Europe in Southsea during the Second World War.
The Duchess of Windsor did express a hope that she might take up designing clothes, and when she and the Duke packed to take up residence in the Bahamas, among the items they took with them was a sewing machine.
DB’s work as an SOE agent was like that of opera singer Diana de Rosso, who successfully carried message ‘dots’ in musical scores.
As for Dimitri’s provenance – a Red Army officer did work with SOE.
Betty Burton, March 2001
First published in the United Kingdom in 2001 by HarperCollins
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Betty Burton, 2001
The moral right of Betty Burton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630344
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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