She set about repairing her make up. By the time she had calmed down, so had her puffy eyes. Dropping her makeup into her handbag, Claire picked up her suitcase, put out the light and went downstairs.
She looked in each room, checking nothing was out of place or looked suspicious. She put on her coat and hat, tightened Mitch’s scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves. With her handbag under her arm and her suitcase in her hand, Claire left the house, quite possibly for the last time.
Neither women spoke on the way to the railway station. When they arrived, Esther parked the car, joined Claire at the ticket office, and walked with her to the platform. ‘Thank you,’ Claire said.
‘For what?’ Esther asked.
‘Making me see sense,’ Claire said. Esther’s brow creased. ‘About Aimée.’
Esther waved the compliment away. ‘You don’t need me to tell you what a remarkable child your daughter is. Come here,’ she said, hugging Claire. ‘She takes after her mother.’
‘Stop it!’ Claire said, carefully wiping the skin beneath her eyes with her finger. ‘I haven’t time to repair my makeup, again.’
‘You look lovely,’ Esther said. Claire rolled her eyes and gave the old lady a wry smile. ‘When you see my grandson, give him my love, will you?’
‘Yes. If I see him.’
Esther tucked Alain’s scarf under the collar of Claire’s coat. ‘And don’t be too hard on him,’ she said, ‘I’m sure he had a very good reason for going to France.’
Claire heard the train’s breaks hiss and engage as the train pulled into the station. ‘I’d better go. I don’t want to miss the train.’
‘Of course not. Let me know you’ve arrived safely if you can.’
‘I will.’ Claire kissed Esther and hurried across the platform to the train bound for Paddington. The station attendant helped her to board, passed her suitcase to her, and slammed the door shut. Claire pulled down the window and thanked him. A second later he blew his whistle. She raised her arm to wave goodbye to Esther, but she had gone.
On the occasions she had travelled by train during the war, it had been standing room only. She’d had to fight her way through crowded corridors, sometimes changing carriages until she found a seat. And when she did it was like sitting in a fog, there was so much tobacco smoke in the air. Now, because passenger trains were no longer used to transport troops and freight, they were cleaner, less crowded, and there were always vacant seats.
She took a few steps along the corridor to the first compartment, opened the door, and put her handbag and gloves on the nearest seat. She hauled her suitcase onto the overhead rack, closed the door and sat down. She felt sick with anticipation. The feeling of not knowing what lay ahead had once excited her. But that was in wartime, when she was with the Special Operations Executive. She had been young and idealistic, determined to beat the Germans into submission and send their army back to Germany defeated.
Claire inhaled and let out a long calming breath. It wasn’t a decade ago, but it felt like a lifetime. She was a different person then, with only herself to worry about. Now she was a mother and a wife - and she was separated from both her child and her husband. Claire bit her lip. She had a long journey ahead of her. She must call on her training, be detached and committed to the job she had to do. If she let sentimentality get in the way, she wouldn’t get beyond the next town along the railway track.
When the train pulled into Didcot station the woman sitting next to the window on the opposite side of the aisle to Claire gathered her belongings and left the compartment. Claire glanced at her fellow travellers. One man was asleep, one was engrossed in the financial pages of The Times, and the other passenger, a woman, was frowning as she pondered an official-looking document that she had been reading since Claire entered the compartment. No one attempted to move to the seat next to the window, so Claire jumped up, grabbed her handbag and gloves and claimed it.
She relaxed back in the seat, took a French dictionary from her handbag and began to flick through it. She had been teaching French to new recruits at Brize Norton for three years. It had kept her fluent in the language, but she needed to remind herself of the regional accents. She needed to be confident if she was going to pass herself off as French. Eight years ago she had not only been fluent in French but she spoke and understood German. She could also get by in Polish. Not that she needed Polish when she worked and lived with the French Resistance in France. French was vital - a matter of life and death - and understanding German came in very handy, especially as German officers spent their days sitting in cafés bragging about their army, toasting its successes and plans. Not in a million years did they think Claire, an ordinary young French girl, could understand what they were saying - and often said things in front of her that were helpful to the Resistance.
Claire’s cover story at the time was that she was born and brought up on the French coast and her parents had sent her to stay with her aunt in Gisoir. Claire had lived in France and worked with the French Resistance for several years. One mistake, however small, could have been fatal. That care she needed to apply now if she was going to find Mitch.
She looked out of the window at the English countryside blanketed in snow. The train pulled into stations and people boarded laughing and joking, looking forward to a day out in London. The war seemed like a very long time ago.
Standing in a queue at Calais, Claire looked at her watch. By now Commander Landry would have sent a car to collect her, as she’d been told he would, and he’d have been informed she wasn’t at home. He’d have deployed a number of intelligence officers to search the house again. The commander was an intelligent man who would assume she had gone to France to look for Mitch. Claire smiled to herself. He’d be dumbfounded when his officers found her passport beneath a loose floorboard behind the tallboy in her bedroom. She hadn’t made it easy for them to find, but she knew they would. Landry’s men were thorough.
Claire opened her handbag and took out the French passport and identity papers that she had retrieved from the attic of her mother’s house at Foxden and handed them with her ticket to the port official in Calais. The official glanced at the passport thanked her and handed it back. He was on to the next passenger before Claire had returned her papers to her handbag.
No matter which mode of transport Commander Landry’s men checked, they wouldn’t find her name on the passenger list of any ferries or ships crossing the English Channel, nor on the passenger list of any aeroplanes flying out of Croydon to Paris. Claire smiled, said Merci to the port official and walked away, exhaling with relief.
FRANCE
January 1950
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The train from Calais slowed as it approached Gisoir station. Claire looked out of the window. The view was familiar. She gathered her belongings and left the compartment. Standing at the exit she pulled down the window, hung out and searched the sea of faces for her friend, Édith Belland. As the train juddered to a halt the passengers waiting to board surged forward and Claire saw her friend at the back of the crowd.
‘Édith!’ Claire shouted. The bright winter sun was shining directly into Édith’s eyes. She may not be able to see me, but she has heard me, Claire thought, as Édith turned her head in her direction. ‘Édith?’ Claire shouted again. And shading her eyes with her left hand, Claire watched as Édith gripped the top of a walking stick with her right. Claire gasped. Her friend was bent over and leaning heavily on the stick. She looked older than the last time Claire was in France. But then she was older. It had been three years.
The platform attendant opened the carriage door and Claire waved at Édith. Édith returned the greeting, brandishing her stick in the air as she limped towards Claire. Édith’s son André arrived at that moment. ‘Here, let me.’ He took Claire’s suitcase and set it down so his hands were free to help her off the train.
‘Claire, Ma chère,’ Édith Belland said, her eyes bright with tears. She held out her free hand.
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‘I am so pleased to see you, my friend,’ Claire said, taking Édith’s hand before wrapping her arms around her. ‘And André,’ she said. With one arm around Édith and one around André, she kissed them both in turn. ‘It has been a long time.’
‘Too long,’ André said, taking a step back. ‘Welcome home.’ Claire had fought the emotion that had been building up inside her since leaving England, but she could hold her reserve no longer and gave into tears. Édith and André, their arms around her, cried with joy.
Gisoir station, but for a lick of paint, hadn’t changed since Claire was last there. André, carrying her suitcase, walked on ahead to the car park, leaving Claire and Édith to follow at a slower pace.
‘Are you well, Édith?’ Claire asked.
‘Yes, quite well. Except for arthritis in my knee and hip.’
‘How long have you been using a stick?’
‘A year, maybe a little longer. I don’t need it in the house. I use it when I go out to the shops. It’s for support more than anything. I fell on the cobbles when I was in the market last year and ever since André has insisted I use the stick.’ She squeezed Claire’s arm. ‘He worries about me, says I’m not getting any younger. Who is, I ask him?’ Édith laughed.
Claire looked out of the window as they drove from the station to the centre of Gisoir. The Town Hall, which had once been Gestapo Headquarters, where Mitch was held before he was taken to the prison in Périgueux had been reclaimed by Gisoir’s town councillors when Germany surrendered. Any damage done by the allied forces had been repaired. From the outside, the building looked the same as it had done the last time Claire, Mitch and Aimée had visited Édith. Claire hadn’t been inside, she hadn’t wanted to.
A cold fist clutched Claire’s heart and she turned her head away. They had plastered over the bullet holes and taken down the Nazi adornments, the red Swastikas and the portraits of Hitler. They had painted the walls and re-hung white shutters at the windows. But just looking at the building made Claire want to vomit. There was nothing that councillors, or painters and decorators could do to change the evil that had been done in that building and others like it all over France during the German occupation.
They drove past Café La Ronde. The striped awning was pulled down and a table and two chairs had been placed on either side of the door, but they were not occupied. It was too cold to sit outside.
André’s wife, Therese, was at the window when Claire and Édith got out of André’s car. By the time they had walked up the short path, Therese was at the front door. She welcomed Claire, hugging her and kissing her on both cheeks. Taking her by the hand Therese showed Claire into the kitchen. ‘It is so good to see you,’ she said.
While Édith put the kettle on to make coffee, Therese took cups and saucers from the cupboard. When she had laid the table, Therese sat down next to Claire. ‘How was your journey?’
‘The sea was rough. It was blowing a gale and there were particles of ice in the air, but it was more comfortable and a lot less frightening than the first time I crossed the English Channel to France.’ Claire shuddered at the memory. ‘Sitting on a cold metal floor in the belly of a Halifax, holding onto a safety line knowing I had to jump into the pitch of night through a hole in the bottom of the aeroplane, and then land goodness knew where.’ Claire shook her head. ‘All I could hear was the deafening roar of the aircraft’s big engines. I was scared to death,’ she laughed.
‘And when you landed, there was no reception committee to meet you,’ Édith said. ‘I remember that night very well.’
‘I was convinced we’d been betrayed, or the Resistance cell had been compromised and we had fallen into a trap, but Alain wasn’t worried at all. He had every faith in the Resistance.’
‘How is Alain?’ André asked, entering the kitchen with Claire’s suitcase.
Édith took the coffee pot from the stove and filled four cups of steaming black coffee. Claire added cream to hers, and took a sip, to give herself time to think how she was going to tell her friends that her husband, their comrade, was suspected of being a German agent. ‘The truth is, I don’t know,’ she said, looking from one to the other of her friends. ‘He has been ill you see, and--’ She took another sip of her coffee. Her hands were shaking so much she spilt it. She put the cup back on its saucer.
Taking a dishcloth from the side of the sink Édith mopped up Claire’s spillage. ‘Drink your coffee, Ma chère. Tell us about Alain when you are ready, oui?’
Claire nodded and smiled through her tears.
‘In the meantime, let us get down to the serious business of photographs. I have an album of photographs of my granddaughter, Lisette, to show you.’ Édith looked at Claire pretending to frown. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten to bring photographs of Aimée,’ she said.
Claire got up, headed for her suitcase, then froze.
‘What is it, Ma chère?’ Édith asked.
‘Someone is at the door.’
André looked at his mother. ‘Are you expecting anyone, Maman?’
‘No.’ Édith glanced at the clock on the dresser and shook her head. ‘I never receive visitors this late.’
A sharp rap rang out, followed immediately by a second. André shook his head. ‘I had better see who it is. At this time of night, it must be important.’
André returned a few minutes later followed by two men in dark suits. He looked at the empty chair where Claire had been sitting and he physically relaxed. The first man, tall and thin with black hair and a pasty complexion, walked past André to the window and looked out. The shorter man, stocky build with sandy coloured hair and a ruddy complexion, stayed by the door.
‘These gentlemen would like to ask you some questions, Maman.’ André walked over to his mother and stood protectively behind her chair.
The shorter man bowed slightly. His tall colleague, with his back to the room, continued to look out of the window.
Édith eyed the men with suspicion. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said, looking from one to the other. ‘Questions at this time of night? What sort of questions?’ She stood up and began clearing the table of dirty cups. ‘Would you like coffee, Messieurs?’ She smiled and nodded at the coffee pot that stood next to the half-empty cup which, until a couple of minutes ago, Claire had been drinking from. She casually moved the cup a few inches to the right so it was in front of Therese who smiled, picked it up, and drank from it. ‘It has not been made long.’ Édith put her hands around the pot. ‘It is still hot.’
‘No, thank you, Madame,’ the shorter man said.
The man at the window turned and observed the room. His eyes settled on Therese. ‘We are trying to locate a woman about your age,’ he said, in an intimidating manner. He then looked at Édith, ‘An English woman named Claire Mitchell. You probably know her as Claire Le Blanc?’
‘I know Claire very well.’ Édith gave the man a broad smile. ‘She is like a daughter to me.’ She looked across the table at Therese who nodded in agreement. ‘May I ask what you want with Claire?’
‘She isn’t in any trouble, is she?’ Therese asked.
‘No, Madame, we just need to ask her a few questions.’ Three pairs of eyes were focused on the tall man doing the talking. ‘Her husband, Captain Alain Mitchell, is missing. We would like to help her find him.’
Édith gasped. ‘Alain, missing?’ she said, with genuine surprise. ‘I don’t understand. The last letter I received from Claire was-- One moment please.’ Édith crossed to the kitchen dresser. She stumbled and André turned to help her, but Édith waved him away. ‘I am fine,’ she said, opening the top drawer and taking an envelope with a Canadian postage stamp from it. Pulling out a thin page of paper, she began to read aloud. ‘“Alain’s parents are lovely people... Alain is responding to treatment… At last Aimée is enjoying her school lessons.” And, what else?’ Édith said, casting her eyes along each line until she reached the end of the page. ‘Here we are. “We shall be in England (at the Foxden Ho
tel) for Christmas, and in France with you, André, Therese, and your granddaughter late spring, early summer. Much love from the three of us, Claire.”
‘From what Claire wrote in this letter,’ Édith said, waving it in the air before dropping it onto the table for the men to see, ‘she is at Foxden, in England, with her family. I have the address of her sister and brother-in-law’s hotel somewhere if you would like it,’ she said, motioning to the door leading to the sitting room.
‘Thank you, but we have the address.’ The tall man turned to his colleague. ‘If there is nothing else, we had better be going.’
‘There is just one thing.’ The shorter man smiled at Édith. ‘Could I use your toilet, Madame?’ he asked, moving quickly to the back door.
‘We have an indoor lavatory, Monsieur,’ Édith said, proudly. ‘It is the door directly opposite the top of the stairs. We keep wood and coal in the old outdoor lavatory, Monsieur. You’re welcome to look. The keys are on the window ledge.’
The man took his hand from the doorknob on the back door and turned to her. ‘Thank you, Madame, that won’t be necessary. ‘Upstairs, you said?’
‘Yes. André, show our visitor where the lavatory is.’
André opened the kitchen door, flicked on the hall light, and the man put up his hand. ‘There is no need for you to show me, Monsieur.’ He looked over his shoulder at Édith. ‘Top of the stairs?’ Édith nodded and the man began his ascent. André closed the door and sat down next to Therese. He looked at his mother and raised his eyebrows.
‘Monsieur?’ Édith said, joining the man who did most of the talking at the window. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you a cup of coffee?’
His body tensed. He shook his head, but his eyes stayed glued to what was on the other side of the glass. ‘No, Madame. It is very hospitable of you, but when my colleague returns we will be leaving.’
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