‘Flight Officer Bingham?’
Claire’s superior stopped in her tracks.
‘Will I be able to sit the French oral exam, and try for the RAF’s Advanced Air Strike Force the next time they’re recruiting?’
The FO spun round. ‘You’ve got balls, Dudley, I’ll give you that.’ She looked at Claire, her face set in a scowl. ‘I don’t know. For now you’re on seventy-two hours sick leave. You’ll also be mentoring new recruits for six weeks.’
Claire opened her mouth to protest.
‘If you persist in interrupting me when I’m speaking, you’ll be mentoring for six months!’ the FO bellowed. ‘Is that clear?’
Claire acknowledged the rebuke with a nod.
‘The answer to your question,’ the FO said, sighing loudly, ‘is yes! And you will still be going on study leave with a French family. You’re damned lucky it has already been arranged. When the doctor signs you off as fit, come and see me.’ The FO looked at Claire with steely eyes. ‘Not a day sooner.’
‘Flight!’
‘Dismissed, Aircraftwoman 2nd Class!’
Claire saluted, turned on her heels and marched out of the office. In the corridor she leant against the wall and held her ribs. She was exhausted and disappointed, and she felt like crying. A stripping-down from Flight Officer Bingham was something everyone dreaded. It could have been worse, she supposed. If the FO wanted to see her when she had recovered, it sounded as if she would get another crack at the French oral exam, and the RAF’s Advanced Air Strike Force. Until then she needed to keep her head down, her nose clean, and hope her ribs healed quickly.
CHAPTER TWO
‘You packed, Ed?’
‘Almost.’ Eddie ticked off clothes items on her fingers. ‘I think I have everything. Oh, not quite,’ she said, grabbing a pair of fully-fashioned silk stockings from the makeshift washing line that stretched across the room from the edge of the window to the corner. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘In a small town called Cullercoats. It’s on the coast about ten miles from the centre of Newcastle. The father of my French family,’ Claire took the briefing notes from her bag and read, “‘Professor Auguste Marron, is a lecturer at King's College. He specialises in European studies, history and languages. He has a sixteen-year-old son called Éric and a ten-year-old daughter, Mélanie.’” She looked down the page. ‘There’s no mention of a wife. Perhaps the professor is divorced, or widowed. Anyway, I am to familiarise myself with their customs, pick up habits that are indigenous to the French way of life, study the map of France – occupied and unoccupied zones. And listen to this, Ed: the FO suggests I learn as much German as possible. She says if my understanding of the language is good enough, it will stand me in good stead.’
‘In good stead for what?’
Claire scanned the rest of the page. ‘She doesn’t say. What about you?’
‘Same as you, but without the German. My French family live in a suburb of Newcastle called Gosforth.’ Eddie sighed.
‘What’s the matter? Living in the city will be just up your street. Think of all the dances you can go to.’
‘I suppose.’ Eddie frowned.
‘So why the long face?’
‘I’m worried about poor George. It’s so unfair. He could lose his job over the accident.’
Claire had seen the ‘poor George’ look before when her friend had fallen for poor Stanley, and a few months earlier for poor Freddie. ‘Are you walking out with George?’
Eddie gave Claire a haughty look. ‘Yes, if you must know. He’s very nice,’ she said, defensively, ‘and loyal. He said he’ll wait for me while I’m away.’
Claire burst into laughter. ‘Anyone would think you were going to the front for six months, instead of to the North East of England for a few weeks.’
Eddie started to laugh, but quickly regained her serious face. ‘I know you don’t think much of George, because he’s a lorry driver…’ Coming from an upper-class family, rank and position were important to Eddie. As the daughter of a groom who was born and brought up in a tied cottage on a country estate, Claire had never considered such things. ‘But he won’t be driving a delivery lorry for much longer. He has joined the Army; The First Armoured Division. He’s waiting for his papers. They could be here any day, which is why I don’t want to leave him.’
‘Unfortunately, Eddie, you don’t have a choice.’ Claire put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. ‘I suggest you pack your twilights. Wearing them will make it easier for you to save yourself for poor George.’ Eddie pretended to be sick. Neither she nor Claire had worn the WAAF-issue long grey woolly bloomers since their first week at Morecambe. ‘Chin up! Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Eddie said, brightening.
Claire picked up her suitcase. ‘I’ll wait for you outside. Get a move on, or we’ll miss our lift to the station.’
The train journey was uneventful. Eddie spent her time gazing out of the window, looking into the mid-distance and sighing, while Claire brushed up on her French. The train was late getting into Newcastle upon Tyne’s Central Station, so they went straight to the Enquiries Office.
‘Excuse me, I’m Aircraftwoman Claire Dudley, and this is Aircraftwoman Edwina Mountjoy. Has anyone asked for either of us?’
‘Hello?’ Claire and Eddie turned to see a good-looking chap in his early twenties with chestnut-brown hair, tanned skin, and big brown eyes. ‘I am Bernie Le Foy. My father has been detained and asked me to collect, Miss Mountjoy.’
‘I’m Edwina Mountjoy,’ Eddie said, batting her eyes and smiling for the first time since leaving Morecambe.
‘So you must be Miss Dudley?’ Claire turned to see a tall distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. His hair was black and peppered with silver, as was his close-cropped beard. He walked towards her, arm outstretched.
‘Yes, Claire Dudley,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Professor Marron.’
The two men introduced themselves and talked about France, while Claire and Eddie said goodbye. Claire put her arms round her friend. ‘See you in a couple of weeks.’
‘Poor George. He will get over me, won’t he?’ Eddie giggled.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Claire said, her arms still round her friend.
‘Absence also makes the heart wander,’ Eddie whispered.
‘Enjoy Newcastle,’ Claire said, hitching the strap of her gas mask further onto her shoulder, ‘and keep your twilights on.’
‘You too. I mean enjoy Culler-thingy, whatever it’s called’
‘Did you sleep well, Miss Dudley?’ Professor Marron asked, when Claire came down for breakfast the next morning.
‘Yes thank you, Professor.’ She looked at the Marron siblings, who had empty plates in front of them. ‘I hope I’m not late.’
‘Not at all. Mélanie, Éric, this is Miss Dudley. Is Miss Dudley the correct way to address you, or would you prefer Aircraftwoman Dudley?’
‘I’d prefer Claire. Miss Dudley sounds so stuffy, and I don’t intend to wear my uniform until I go back to RAF Morecambe. I’m pleased to meet you Mélanie, Éric.’ Both children said hello with welcoming smiles.
Professor Marron poured coffee into Claire’s cup and Éric passed her a dish of croissants.
‘Butter?’ The professor’s ten-year-old daughter handed Claire the butter dish.
‘Thank you, Mélanie.’
‘Why are you speaking English? Papa said we are only to speak French while you are here.’
Mélanie was bright, forward too. ‘You are quite right. From this minute I will only speak French, d’accord?’
‘Okay.’ Mélanie put her hand up to her mouth and giggled. ‘I mean, très bien.’
‘I think you and I are going to get on well, Mélanie,’ Claire said.
‘You know Claire is a French name?’
‘Yes. I don’t know why my parents chose it. I don’t think we have any French connections.�
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‘You should ask them.’
‘That is a good idea, Mélanie, I shall.’
That night when chatter-box Mélanie had gone up to bed, Claire asked Professor Marron if she could see the library.
‘But of course. Are you looking for a specific book?’
‘No. I’d like to browse, if that’s all right.’ Claire pushed open the heavy panelled door and breathed in the smell of polished wood, old books and leather. She looked around. It reminded her of the library at Foxden Hall, where her father had been head groom before the war, and where her sister Bess, with a team of land girls, was turning the estate into arable land. Foxden Hall’s library was considerably bigger. It had one of the largest collections of rare books in the country. The Professor’s bookshelves held fewer books, but many were as rare and beautiful as those at Foxden. It was books by French authors that interested Claire. She walked the length of the bookshelf, fascinated by the Professor’s collection of nineteenth century books. She turned at the sound of the library door opening. ‘I’m admiring Le Comédie Humaine,’ she said, as Professor Marron entered. ‘Do you have the complete works of Balzac?’
‘I wish,’ the Professor said, putting his hands together as if in prayer, ‘but sadly no. There are more than ninety volumes. Is it Balzac that you’re interested in?’
‘Not especially. I want a break from learning German and reading French history books – and thought I’d read a novel for a change.’
Professor Marron stroked his neat beard as he walked along the bookcase, stopping every now and then to peruse a title. ‘You may like this author,’ he said, pulling two novels by Anne Louise Germaine de Staël from the shelf. He handed one to Claire. ‘Delphine. I think you’ll enjoy it.’ He turned the remaining book over in his hands. ‘Corinne! One of my wife’s favourite books. You and she have a lot in common I think – with Madame de Staël too. Goodnight.’ Replacing his wife’s favourite book on the bookcase, Professor Marron left the library.
The following morning Claire tied her scarf tightly under her chin and lifted her face to the sky. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with salt air and ozone. With her coat buttoned up to the neck, she braced herself against the blustering wind coming off the North Sea and walked along the beach at Cullercoats. She stood at the water’s edge, overwhelmed by the vast expanse of grey-green sea in front of her. Bending down, she picked up a shell and put it to her ear.
‘Can you hear the sea?’ Éric Marron shouted.
‘Éric! You made me jump. No, I can’t hear anything except the wind.’
Éric picked up a much bigger shell. ‘Try this.’
Claire put it to her ear. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘I can hear the sea. It’s amazing. It sounds… Well, it doesn’t sound anything like I imagined.’
‘Don’t you go to the sea front where you’re based?’
‘Yes, we do our physical training on the beach. It’s mostly sand. I haven’t seen any shells on it. My favourite pastime is walking along the promenade. I do it every chance I get.’ She picked up a pebble and skimmed it across the choppy sea. ‘Two bounces. Whoohoo!’ She bent down and found another flatter, rounder stone. ‘See if you can do better,’ she said, dropping it into Éric’s hand. He threw it and it sank without bouncing. ‘I win,’ Claire cheered.
‘Do you get excited about everything, Miss Dudley? Sorry, Claire. Or is it just the sea?’
Claire thought for a moment. ‘I don’t get excited about everything, but I suppose I’m enthusiastic about most things. What are you enthusiastic about, Éric?’
‘France,’ Éric said, ‘and my mother.’ He turned into the wind. It tousled his hair and made his eyes water. ‘My mother is in Paris with my grandparents.’ He picked up a pebble and lobbed it into the waves. ‘She insisted Papa brought Mélanie and me to England, so we would be safe. Huh!’ Éric kicked out at a piece of driftwood.
‘I know there are munition factories and bomb factories – and of course the docks in South Shields – but here in Cullercoats you’re pretty safe,’ Claire said, reassuringly.
‘I know.’ Éric looked at Claire and held her gaze.
‘What is it, Éric?’
‘It isn’t that kind of safety my mother was concerned about. It is because we are Jewish that she made Father bring us to England.’ Éric talked and Claire listened. ‘Jewish people, entire families, are being persecuted. The persecution of the Jewish people began in Germany ten years ago, longer, and now it is happening in France. As the Germans march through my country, Jewish people are disappearing. The official line is that they are being relocated, but,’ tears filled the boy’s eyes, ‘it is a lie, Claire. They are being sent by the thousand to camps in Germany. They say it is to work, but many are too old to work, or too sick – and some are only children.’ Éric broke down and cried and Claire wrapped her arms around him. She tried to imagine what it would be like if England was occupied by the Germans – if her parents and her brother and sisters were taken to work camps in another country – but she couldn’t. Éric lifted his head and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I will go back and liberate my country, and the Jewish people, as soon as I am old enough. I will join the Army and I will fight the Germans until France and her people are free again,’ he cried.
Éric had an old head on young shoulders. He reminded Claire of her older brother, Tom, who was in the Army. He had joined up as soon as he was able, before war was declared. In his last letter, Tom said he was somewhere in France. Claire shivered. ‘I wonder where my brother is.’
‘Excuse me?’
Claire looked up at her young friend. ‘I was thinking aloud. You were talking about joining the Army and fighting in France, and it reminded me that my brother Tom is doing exactly that.’ Claire pulled the lapels of her coat up to her chin and held them tightly. ‘I’m cold. Shall we go back?’ Éric looked disappointed. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you about my big brother as we walk.’
That evening, when Claire was reading in the library, Éric poked his head round the door. ‘Is it all right if I do my homework in here with you?’
‘Of course.’ Éric lumbered in and sat at his father’s desk. He spread out his books and took a pen from his pocket. ‘You’re keen, working at the weekend.’
‘We have so much homework, we have to. And I need to use Papa’s reference books when he doesn’t need them. Politics!’ he grimaced.
‘I suppose I ought to know about French politics from a young French person’s perspective. If you do the studying tonight, can I pick your brains tomorrow?’ Éric didn’t reply. ‘I’ll buy you coffee and cake in the Beach Café.’
‘All right!’ Éric said, his eyes wide and sparkling.
‘Good. You can tell me what someone who isn’t interested in politics needs to know.’ Claire finished reading de Staël’s Delphine, and returned it to the bookcase. She looked at a dozen other novels, read the information on the fly-leaf of several, and settled on Madame Marron’s favourite book, Corinne.
After supper Éric said he had a little more work to do and returned to the library. Claire joined Mélanie and her father in the parlour. While they played cribbage, Claire read her book. Mélanie, obviously an expert at the game, won almost every match. Eventually the Professor put his hands up and called time on the game. Kissing her father and calling goodnight to Claire, Mélanie danced out of the room the victor.
Claire rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I am going up too,’ she said, closing her book. After wishing each other goodnight, the professor moved to an armchair by the fire and put on the wireless, and Claire went to the library. Éric wasn’t there and the fire had gone out. Coming from the warm parlour, the library felt quite cold. She shivered and quickly placed the book she’d been reading, Corrine, on the bookshelf next to its sister book, Delphine. Then she switched off the light and left.
Crossing the hall she noticed a couple of books on the post table. She read their spines. The book on top was an atlas called Maps
of France, the one underneath France and its Bordering Countries. She blew out her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ she said out loud. As she turned to leave she saw something white sandwiched between the two volumes. She lifted the book on top to reveal a sheet of note paper. Written in a neat hand was a list of occupied and unoccupied zones. Beneath it, in Éric’s casual scrawl, it said 65 Avenue St. Julien, 8th Arrondissement, Paris. Guessing it was the address of Éric’s grandparents, where his mother was living, Claire committed the address to memory, replaced the note, and went up to bed.
The next morning, when Mélanie had returned to her bedroom to finish dressing and Professor Marron was in his study, Claire asked Éric about the address.
‘It is my grandparents’ address. I thought if you were ever in Paris you might look my mother up.’ Éric pressed a piece of folded paper into Claire’s hand.
Without opening it, Claire gave it back to him. He looked crestfallen. ‘I’ve memorised it. If I am ever in Paris, I will visit your mother and give her your love.’ Éric looked at her through sad eyes. ‘I promise!’ she said, and her young friend smiled. Grandma’s house is only a couple of stops from the Champs Élysées, on the Métro. Take this,’ he said, giving Claire a book of the underground stations. ‘It was mother’s. The last time we visited my grandparents we went sight-seeing. She gave it to me in case we got separated.’
Claire opened the small square red and blue Paris Nouveau Plan. ‘It’s lovely, Éric. Are you sure you want to part with it?’
‘Yes, if it will take you to my mother.’
‘Repertoire Des Rues Métro,’ Claire read. ‘Directory of Streets and the Métro.’
Éric cuffed a tear from his cheek. ‘You must think I’m a baby, always crying.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort. I can’t begin to imagine what it was like for you, and your sister and father, to have to leave your home and move to another country--’ Claire’s voice faltered and she cleared her throat. ‘And to leave your mother and grandparents behind... I think you are very brave, Éric.’
China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) Page 2
