An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Oh God, I think this is one of my grandma’s cast-offs!’ Violet wrinkled her nose at her floral shift with a sash belt that looked as though it should sit low on her hips – if she had any, that is.

  ‘Do you want to wear this one?’ Molly held out the green number.

  ‘Oh, you’re too kind, darling, but I shall look gorgeous even in my gran’s frock!’ Violet announced gaily, wrapping the fabric around her body.

  Molly laughed in spite of her nerves.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ Violet asked suddenly.

  ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,’ Molly whispered back.

  ‘I’m thinking back to the first time I did a job for . . .’ Violet let this trail. ‘I was scared, excited, petrified, and then numb with fear – which is a whole lot worse than petrified, but actually easier to hide, so that’s a plus.’

  ‘And you know this is my first time?’

  Violet nodded. ‘I noticed the way you didn’t wave when I did, didn’t acknowledge me until I’d given you the code. That was good.’ She spoke as if impressed and it was encouraging, easing Molly’s concern that she might be a complete liability as a novice.

  ‘Right,’ Violet said, unbuttoning her overalls, ‘time to put on our glad rags.’

  ELEVEN

  Saintes, Charente-Maritime, France

  October 1944

  Aged 19

  Molly gripped the side of the seat as the truck bounced along the lane in the encroaching darkness. It had been quite beautiful, standing in her finery on the edge of the courtyard at the farm, watching the sun dip as the rounded landscape with its abundant vineyards turned a pleasant shade of lilac with an almost fiery orange sky. She wished she could have seen it with Johan, but then she wished many things. Violet had climbed in deftly and sat in the middle of the long seat, rubbing her hands together as if keen to get on with the job in hand. Molly sat next to her, not quite so keen and wary of what lay ahead. Jacques, still in his straw hat, seemed as indifferent as he had earlier, saying little; he was simply the driver, the farmer. Doing his best and doing his bit right under the nose of the Nazis.

  Molly’s own shorter hair had been brushed, and the rouge that now adorned Violet’s cheeks added fullness to her lips. The evening was close and Molly was sweating. Had nerves not made the breath stutter in her throat, she would have asked Jacques if it was okay to roll down the window. The night was dark now, with only the odd flicker of a naked flame dotted here and there in the distance, as lamps and fires flared on homesteads across the once vibrant vineyards. Even under these terrible circumstances, it was a magical place. As they neared the town, she could see it was brighter, with street lamps lighting the way. This was something she was unused to back in the streets of London. Blackouts meant she had become accustomed to trotting over the pavements with no more than a sense of where she was heading, following the route home by judging familiar outlines and on instinct, as much as anything else. Tripping and stumbling over the potholes and uneven paving slabs, which the powers that be had neither time nor inclination to address when their eyes were on a much bigger prize.

  Violet exhaled slowly, tapping her fingers on her thighs, the only indication she might be nervous. The truck slowed on the edge of the market square and the flag above the mairie seemed to have grown since Molly last saw it. The crimson flutter of the fabric filled the sky and cracked the air above them. Groups of occupying soldiers stood gathered on the street corners and the intersections of roads and walkways. The two women prepared to jump down from the truck and onto the cobbled street and Molly felt the icy needle of fear in her veins.

  ‘Fear is a state of mind and one you cannot allow yourself to dwell on. Fear can give you away and fear can trip you up, so stay focused and never forget that you are doing something for the greater good. Think about your own personal motivations; remember why you are here and what we are fighting for . . .’

  Unbidden, Molly pictured her baby boy and the way it had felt lying next to him in that single bed, the feel of his warm little body next to hers and the complicit nature of his slumber, him trusting her to be the very best custodian of his safety. She balled her fingers into fists. She would, she knew, always remember what she was fighting for: to keep her baby boy safe, to bring him back home to her.

  Violet turned to her. ‘Fun, remember? We are here to have fun. Life is funny.’

  Molly laughed for real at the utter absurdity of the sentence.

  No sooner had their feet touched the cobbles than Violet let out a loud laugh, her head thrown back and her eyes closed. She linked arms with Molly and the two tripped along, whispering, giggling and stopping only to twirl in a dance move, much to the amusement of the soldiers, who paused from their smoking, leaned on their guns and smiled or whistled in appreciation. Molly had to concentrate hard on moving her legs, which felt like lead, as if her body was intent on pulling her in the opposite direction of danger.

  An old woman in a black headsquare with a large basket over her arm came towards them along the pavement; she was muttering under her breath, her face contorted with anguish. It was an expression Molly recognised, familiar to many in these turbulent times: the face of someone who had had their heart shredded and their hopes smashed but was powerless to seek redress.

  ‘Whores!’ the woman hissed.

  ‘Kiss my arse!’ Violet’s response was fast, fierce and believable. It was only at close quarters that Molly could see the pain in her associate’s eyes, belying her cocky response.

  Two soldiers within hearing distance laughed loudly. Violet blew them a kiss.

  The Café Hubert was busy and loud in the evening. The outside seating area occupied earlier by a few tables and chairs was now far busier – bustling and almost standing room only. A skinny unshaven man with an accordion sat with his legs splayed on a rickety canvas-slung stool, pumping out a mournful tune, his eyes closed and his head tilted. Molly could only imagine that in his mind he was anywhere but here, possibly with his true love in a place with no occupying soldiers . . . These loud and boisterous soldiers were red-faced men with caps askew and unbuttoned tunics. Swilling red wine, beer and pastis, they grabbed snacks from trays passed around at head-height by a waitress who was pawed from all sides. She didn’t flinch, suggesting this was the norm. Molly locked her jaw, knowing she was about to enter the lion’s den. She could feel the slight tremble in her limbs. A jolly man with a white apron tied under his ample chest called across the pavement, ‘Violet, Claudette, you’re late!’

  ‘Bonsoir, Bernard!’ Violet laughed and quickened her pace towards the café.

  Molly felt the eyes of several men upon her.

  ‘Na, hallo, meine Süsse!’ one of them called. Taking her lead from Violet, she managed to laugh a little.

  Bernard led the two of them through the throng and into the café, where it was quieter. A handful of women sat at a tall dark bar with a zinc top, some smoking alone, others gazing into the blue eyes of German soldiers while their hands snaked up the leg of their field-grey woollen trousers and came to rest on taut thighs.

  Bernard walked quickly past, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He opened a low door of pitch pine with a heavy iron latch. Through here were more tables crowded with Nazis, these ones wearing rather grander uniforms adorned with shiny buttons and chains, black crosses and medals, while nearly all of their high-peaked officer’s hats now lay carelessly abandoned on the tabletops. The sight was enough to make Molly’s blood run cold.

  ‘If you feel you might be losing your nerve, remember that these are the men who take orders from the very top and who give the orders that mean the loss of British lives, and that’s happening every day to people just like you and just like me.’

  A small makeshift dance floor sat at the back of the low-ceilinged room, the air thick with smoke. Music came courtesy of a gramophone which pumped out a scratchy but passable beat, enough to get a few feet tapping, and one officer was even on the dance floor with a you
ng woman – a really very young woman. Molly watched as they spun and spiralled away and then back to each other, arms around waists, cheeks flushed, sweat gathering in damp pools at their backs and armpits and smiles lighting up their faces, as if it were any other dance in any other dimly lit hall in any other part of the world – as if outside this room their families did not spout malice behind closed doors and wish harm on the other. The girl’s shoes were too big, buckled up around her slender ankles, her dirty little feet sliding with each step, and it saddened Molly more than she could say.

  ‘You know, Marvellous Molly, I should tell you now that if you don’t immediately say no to a dance, I will always assume it’s a yes . . .’

  ‘Claudette!’ Bernard called sharply. He reached for a large tray on a sideboard in the corner and handed it to her. On it lay small parcels of golden pastry that smelled like heaven; she could make out undertones of cheese and a herb that was new to her. Her mouth watered – food like this had never been on the menu at Old Gloucester Street, war or no war.

  ‘Serve our guests,’ Bernard instructed her curtly. Molly took the tray and approached a table, watching as the men glanced from the pastries to her face and then back again, their eyes closing briefly in pleasure as they crammed their mouths. Their harsh German staccato and their close proximity made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. This was the hated sound of the enemy which had blared from the wireless set occasionally at home – the sound of the Führer himself.

  ‘Ah, General Heistermann!’ Bernard called his name, as much to alert them to his presence, Molly realised, as to give the big man the entrance he no doubt expected. ‘Your table is ready!’

  She carried on handing out her dainty morsels, with one eye on Bernard, whose obsequious manner was really quite repulsive. The General shrugged the black leather coat from his shoulders and folded it carefully over the back of his chair, placing his neatly paired gloves in his upturned hat on the tabletop. Bernard beckoned for a waiter to bring a bottle of wine and some glasses. The General called forward a lackey, who poured a little wine and sipped it before swilling the bottle, holding it up to the light bulb and doing the same again. Satisfied, another glass was filled and the General glugged the glass of red before Bernard hastily rushed to refill it. Two officers now joined the General at the table and the three drank, elbows on the table, heads together, deep in hushed conversation. Bernard clicked his fingers and motioned for Molly to offer her tray of food to their esteemed guest.

  ‘Monsieur?’ she prompted, lowering the tray, and the General looked her full in the eye. Molly was convinced there was a moment when her heart actually stopped and all the blood left her body.

  The General waited for his manservant to test the safety of a pastry before picking one himself with his neatly manicured fingers and popping it onto his tongue. And then he smiled at her and she smiled back.

  ‘Wie wär’s mit einem Tänzchen . . .? Na, hmm . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Tu aimes danser? You like dancing?’

  Molly had understood the first time; her German was as good as her French.

  ‘Oui.’ She knew enough not to refuse. Her voice was not as small, as she had feared. Bernard took her tray and she watched as the General slowly rose to his feet.

  ‘I like your dress.’ The General’s eyes roved over her body and, despite her fear, Molly understood that playing this part was her way of helping the war effort, her prize being when it was all over and she got Joe back. And if anything should happen to her, then at least she knew he would be intensely loved by Joyce and Albert. She thought of the accordion player outside and followed his example, briefly closing her eyes to picture the man she had loved and lost.

  ‘Merci.’ Her voice was much quieter this time.

  Herr Heistermann led her onto the dance floor, his large paw on the small of her back and her hand inside his, waiting for the music to change. She caught Violet’s eye and caught the faintest flicker of concern on her face and the tension in her jaw. This was not the plan. There had been no mention of dancing.

  ‘A good agent will improvise, adapt and overcome, but always with the endgame in mind. Don’t forget: the plan is the plan until the plan changes. No matter how many deviations or interruptions are thrust in your path, the plan is always the plan.’

  The gramophone sparked into life and a Schubert waltz filled the room. The General moved slowly and gracefully for a man of his size, whisking lightly across the floor. Molly let herself be guided by the firm hand on her back and the defined movement of his legs. It was agony being held by this man whose comrades had killed Johan, had made the world ugly and unsafe and caused her to be parted from her son. There was, however, no option other than to push the ball of fury and revulsion down into her gut and get on with the job.

  She blinked, shutting out the image of the last man she had danced with.

  Forgive me . . . Her thoughts flew, she hoped, to wherever her beloved might be.

  As if in honour of some unwritten rule or in reverence to the General’s status, no one else came to join them on the floor and the two danced alone until the end of the record with the eyes of everyone in the room upon them. Molly felt exposed and conscious of her every movement. As the last notes faded, the General raised her hand to his mouth and she felt the brush of his lips on her skin. She cursed the bloom of tears in her eyes, wanting to erase the memory of the contact, hating that he had kissed any part of her. He was the enemy, a foul and powerful enemy. She knew, however, that to wipe away his touch or release the words of disgust that trembled on her tongue would at the very least be provocative. The Walther P38 in his holster seemed to catch the light, a reminder that it was only the twitch of a finger away and that he would no doubt have little hesitation in aiming it at her.

  ‘Never underestimate just how dispensable you are. To all parties. It simply has to be that way.’ The Major’s words had had a profound effect on her, so low was her mood, with her own expectations of happiness so entirely shattered that the prospect of being dispensable hadn’t frightened her at all, in fact quite the opposite. It was, as ever, only the thought of reunion with her son that kept her fighting day by day.

  General Heistermann appeared moved, clearly misunderstanding her brief flash of emotion, and he smiled at her.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Claudette.’ She kept her eyes on the floor.

  ‘Claudette,’ he repeated with an unexpected softness to his tone, clicking his heels with a slight bow.

  Evocative of everything Molly hated, this was enough to galvanise her into action. She gave a half-curtsey based on little more than intuition and then crossed to the sideboard at the rear of the room to collect a carafe of wine. On the way, she passed Violet, who now held a small white china plate in her hand, the edge rimmed with two gold lines and the words ‘CAFÉ HUBERT’. The two barely exchanged a glance.

  Violet held the plate aloft and walked jauntily to the table where Heistermann and his cronies were again reaching for the wine. Molly remembered her instructions and made her way slowly to the table by the door. Bending forward to refill the glasses of the officers who were seated, she felt the man to her left slide his hand up the back of her leg. It came to rest at the top of her stockings. Her instinct was to yell at him, to punch and snarl, but instead she played the coquette and slapped the man’s hand.

  ‘Naughty!’ she giggled.

  The men at the table laughed. Herr Heistermann glared in their direction and the officer removed his hand and sat up straight. The wave of gratitude she felt towards the General was conflicting and momentary, quickly crushed by the rocks of hatred that lined her gut.

  Only time could offer any clarity as to what happened next. Time and the careful piecing together of each small fragment of information that she would gather from the furthest corners of her memory, rebuilding events until she was certain she had correctly laid it out in her mind, like a jigsaw that revealed the picture only when finished. And how s
he wished it had been a puzzle, quickly dismantled, easy to forget and shut away in a box. Now, alongside the faces of her beloved boys, Johan and Joe, Molly knew she would forever see the interior of the Café Hubert and what followed. The whole frightful thing unfolded in less than three minutes. Three short minutes that would change lives for ever. But that, she knew, was the nature of war.

  V2 hits Chiswick! Three dead!

  Violet bent forward. Molly noticed how she had unbuttoned the top of her frock to reveal a healthy glimpse of bosom.

  ‘Good evening, Herr General.’

  ‘Ah, Violet, and how are you?’ He smiled at her trustingly.

  ‘Awfully well, thank you!’

  ‘And what do you have for me tonight?’ He grinned, his eyes bright, as they passed over her delectable sugar-coated candies.

  She held her plate towards Herr Heistermann, who without any further prompting reached for a sweet, one of five pre-loaded with the poison Molly had brought from London. Instead of putting it straight in his mouth, he waved it in his fingers as he chatted to his colleague, labouring a point before calling to his lackey to come and take one. Violet appeared perfectly cool, but her fake smile was telling. She watched as the lackey took a sweet, and tried to hasten things by selecting the one that was untampered with, popping it into her mouth with sheer teasing audacity, chewing slowly and closing her eyes momentarily as she swallowed. The whole display was enough to make anyone want a sweet. The men at the table and the lackey laughed at her impudence.

  Molly watched the lackey bring his own sweet to his lips. Her hands were shaking and time seemed to run slow as she watched him slowly, slowly . . . Suddenly there came a loud shout from beyond the pine door, followed immediately by more yelling, screams from one or two of the women and then gunfire. Molly felt her heart leap in her chest; her fear was like a note in her mind – high and shrill. Driven by instinct, she jumped back against the wall, next to the door and its heavy brocade curtain, as every soldier in the room jumped to his feet, quickly and instinctively reaching for his firearm. She wanted to make a run for it, but all her movements seemed to drag through a thick treacle of fear. She watched as the lackey dropped the sweet to join men from the nearby tables in a protective ring around Herr Heistermann. Violet seemed to have frozen, the plate of bonbons still in her hand.