The suicide by cyanide of a collaborator industrialist, after his fiancée had given her affections to a German officer instead of her Vichy lover. The arsenic in the apple cake . . .
The woman she had called Grandmère, the leader of the resistance cell in the organisation La Dame Blanche, would have been proud of her, had Grandmère not died after the last war, in which she had taught Violette not just how to hate, but how to kill.
This death might be the first to be investigated as murder, if several drank from the same decanter. But symptoms would not appear for twelve hours at least, and the essence of deadly mushroom might still be taken for food poisoning, or a simple mistake with a few deadly fungi among innocent ones. And, if not, who would suspect a dressmaker? More likely it would be Madame herself who would be accused, if she had found out about her husband’s mistress. Or even the mistress, if she’d realised Monsieur le Politician was not about to leave his wife for her.
Violette breathed the autumn air, the smoke-thick fog, the whiff of chicory. The Boche may have forbidden dancing in the city, but the elegant still sipped their coffee in the pavement cafés.
They were not the same coffee drinkers as before the occupation, naturellement. These were collaborators, those who posted Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen on the door of their businesses and welcomed the Boche soldiers who flocked to Paris on leave. This was a city where all young men on the streets must be friends of the enemy, if not the Boche themselves. It was truly an ‘occupation’, where the best apartments, cafés and hotels were occupied by German soldiers or officials — the Ritz, the Hôtel Meurice, the Hôtel Lutetia, even picture theatres and brothels, from the most sordid to the One-Two-Two, were open only to the enemy or their most-favoured friends.
The City of Light was dark now and not just because of the curfew from nine pm to five am and the blackout. It was a strangely quiet city too: the building noise that somehow was always a part of every street — for no street was ever finished — had vanished. So had the street minstrels who in earlier times had performed on almost every corner. The hawkers had disappeared too. Fewer cars purred along the boulevards, and those cars were mostly military, or collaborators’ limousines. One heard sirens instead of music now, or even the rare call of a bird.
For Violette this was still the most perfect city, and not just because a reverence for fashion had drawn her here. The world had heard of the invasion of Poland with outrage or even shock. Violette had felt relief — the waiting was at last over — and a shiver of excitement too.
She had been too young in the last war. But finally, she was what she had been taught to be since she was a child, following the path of her grandmère.
She stepped out gaily as the yellowing chestnut leaves fluttered above her, beautiful in a hat that was a wisp of violet net, twisted into a bow. Her silk stockings were from the hoard in the cellar, not from the black market. Her suit was cut so that even the slim-line skirt still swished across the stockings, a sound that whispered, ‘Look at me. I can be seduced.’ Her jacket bore wreaths of violets embroidered on each cuff and in soft sweeps under the bosom. And all, naturellement, in violet.
Every designer must have a recognisable style, a signature. Let the Boche-loving Chanel keep her trousers and pouff! to the omnipresent little black dress. Women in war-time wanted escape, a hint of the frivolous despite the restrictions. Men wanted femininity. Cloth might be rationed, but embroidery was not, and there were plenty of women desperate enough to spend their evenings using the sewing and beading skills they had learned from the nuns at school.
And she? Violette had the clothes she created, the elegance, the thrill, the comforts of the ‘little gifts’ her clients gave her, so she could ignore the rationing that slowly starved France not just of food, but also of its joy in eating and in sharing. She had everything she wanted.
Except a lover. Most simple to find, of course, but to her surprise she wanted no one but George. She felt both the pang of missing him and uneasiness, for George, of a certainty, would not agree with her activities. But why should he know? This was war, and in war one killed the enemy. All across the world now people died and people killed. She, Violette, merely happened to be extremely good and most discreet with it. War was a bubble floating out of time, and when it was over anything . . . inconvenient to remember . . . could be left behind.
And today she had adventure, challenge. Who knew what next opportunity war might bring? It would be most good when the war ended, of course, and the Boche were gone. There would be George again, and dancing, the scent of tripe à la mode and tarte Tatin from the cafés, and laughter from their customers on the pavements.
But now? Tomorrow the mistress of a man rumoured to be high in the Gestapo had a fitting at Maison Violette. The mistress herself was a nothing, of course, but might present most interesting opportunities for some small accident to happen to her lover, or even perhaps his colleagues.
Violette had eggs for an omelette tonight, as well as black-market cheese delivered by a boy on a bicycle, and a most excellent wine from her pre-war cellar. And she was young, and beautiful, and two men, no three, were staring at her admiringly . . .
Violette pressed a few francs into the hand of a legless beggar perched on a small cart with his hat upon the pavement and accepted his, ‘Merci, mademoiselle,’ with a smile.
Yes, life was good.
Chapter 3
The French chef chappie who invented Lord Woolton Pie never had to eat it for his supper after a hard day in the factory. Turnip, carrots, cauliflower boiled up with oatmeal to make a sauce and covered with a pastry of boiled potato and flour? ‘You’ve got to be joking’, I said, but he weren’t. I had to break out my last tin of corned beef just to stop my stomach from weeping at the thought of it . . .
The Memoirs of Dame Ethel Carryman, MBE, Volume 2: Misery at the Ministry
SOPHIE
‘That’s a German Junkers 88. Built for speed and low flying.’ George’s whole body seemed focused down as he eased the joystick back.
Sophie tried to sound calm. ‘What’s it doing over England in daylight? And by itself?’
‘I’d say it’s a lone intruder. Probably following the railway line to bomb a factory — you need daylight for that.’
Suddenly their craft whizzed forward, not into the clouds to hide as Sophie had expected, but directly towards the rear of the Junkers.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Stopping it,’ said George calmly.
‘You said we are unarmed!’
‘We are.’ The man’s tone turned grim. ‘But I’m not going to let those bombs land on England.’
The tiny Junkers was close enough to make out every detail now with the sun behind it. Their plane gave another surge towards the enemy plane’s rear. The Junkers dropped down into the cloud.
Sophie closed her eyes for a moment in relief. ‘Why didn’t he shoot us?’
‘The RAF have a saying “Beware the Hun in the sun”. The tactic works for us Brits too. You can’t see a plane approach you from the direction of the sun. The Junkers has a blind spot aft, as well. By the time the pilot saw us he knew we were in place to make a killing shot. He had to get his craft out of the way, fast.’
‘Kill them with what? My fruit knife?’ Or the pistol she carried in her handbag, which George need not know about, but that would have been no use if he did.
‘The pilot doesn’t know that.’ Their own plane dropped too. ‘Now we’re chasing him.’ Grey metal gleamed damply in grey cloud ahead of them, vanished, reappeared.
Sophie bit back the words, ‘Isn’t this dangerous?’
Of course it was dangerous. The only way she could help now was by keeping quiet, as the plane in front of them dropped, veered, lifted, with George seeming to know by instinct exactly where the Junkers would appear next.
‘Need to stay far enough back so he doesn’t wonder why I don’t shoot,’ George muttered. ‘But not far enough back so that we lose him
. . . ah, there he is again. He’s circling,’ he added confirming Sophie’s calculations. ‘Trying to lose us while wasting as little fuel as he can. He won’t have much to spare on a mission like this, not if he’s carrying any weight in explosives, and he will be, to make the mission worthwhile. Eeh, got you, you wazzock!’ The plane ahead dropped, as if the pilot had thrown out an anchor. George followed through the clouds.
All at once colour flashed into the world again, carved into neat fields of soft spring green, hedgerows, stone-ridged lanes. The England she had first seen and learned to love with Miss Lily, to love even more deeply with Nigel, the England she had left . . .
But not sideways and then almost upside down. Sophie instinctively gripped the seat with both hands again, despite the belts keeping her secure. Part of her wanted to try to make sense of George’s revelation. The other half simply wanted to survive.
A burst of gunfire. Sophie thought she could see the silver of each shot as it sped towards them. Their craft veered sharply upwards, back into the grey.
‘Eeeh, now thee’s got it, ye scunner. He’s finally realised we aren’t armed,’ George translated for Sophie. ‘He’s chasing us now.’
‘Oh, good,’ Sophie muttered.
George flashed her a grin. ‘Very good. He’s having to move fast to keep up with us. That’s using even more of his fuel.’ He pulled the plane sharply to the right, up, then to the left and down, the cloud around them endless, the day endless . . .
. . . and if it did end it might be sudden, their fuel tanks exploding. It might be slow, the plane burning around them as they fell. Sophie waited for a flash of fire, or a green arrow as the ground below became their killer.
‘Listen,’ said George, an eternity of grey soup later.
‘For what?’
‘An engine.’
Sophie focused. ‘To our left. Getting fainter.’
‘I thought so, too. Got him, by gum!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We stole an hour from him. He’ll be pushing to get back to France now.’
‘Not after us any longer?’
‘No. He’s realised how much he’s wasted in the chase.’
‘Can’t he find another target?’
‘He won’t have enough fuel. Likely have to drop those bombs of his in the Channel pretty quick too, as he won’t have enough to carry them back to land either. We’ve travelled back over the Channel again now, if my calculations are correct.’
How could they be, after that juddering, muttering chase within the clouds? Their plane dropped again and Sophie’s stomach with it.
Cliffs, a grey sea, urgent demands for identification on the radio now that their plane was visible. George answered, more numbers it seemed than words, nothing she cared about. She was alive . . .
And the Junkers would not kill anyone today. No factory would erupt in flames, no families be left bereft, no vital war effort maimed . . .
But if George had failed in this insane exploit she would not have reached England. The urgent, unknown mission bringing her to England would not be fulfilled, because George Carryman had fought the enemy, using the only weapon he had — his own skill.
Had he done right? She could not judge. Had he risked himself, his plane, her and her mission to prove his bravery to himself, or simply to save those who’d have died as their factory exploded, a factory desperately needed for the war effort? Sophie could not judge that either, just as suddenly as she did not feel competent to judge his determination not to kill another person.
‘And we’ll land ourselves with at least five minutes of fuel to spare,’ said George cheerfully. ‘I’ll buzz the Hall to give them a hint to put the kettle on.’
Shillings Hall without Lily, or Nigel. How can I bear Shillings now, so changed? she wondered. But one coped, of course, and carried on . . .
Five minutes of fuel to spare before they crashed . . .
The words finally registered. Sophie shut her eyes in silent prayer.
No, Sophie could not judge George’s decisions, nor his bravery nor his morality.
Daniel, she thought. He had the wisdom to assess this man and what he’d done today. Now Lily was gone Daniel’s wisdom was her only anchor in the world.
But Daniel was far away.
Chapter 4
Where there is love, there is always grief, because if you did not love you would never feel the grief. So is love worth it, knowing that it brings pain as well? Always, my dears.
Miss Lily, 1912
THURINGA, AUSTRALIA, OCTOBER 1942
DANIEL
Daniel Greenman woke among the tussocks by the river bank and knew that last night he had been John.
He had been John for more than ten years a long time ago, after the Great War, a simple man, living in a stringybark hut by a farm gate, which he opened for sixpence or a loaf of bread or simply if someone tooted the horn. He spent his day trapping rabbits, collecting firewood or watercress and carving a cross for every man he had seen die on the Western Front, knowing that was a task that would last well beyond his lifetime.
He had taken delight in the kookaburras’ laughter, the march of ants, not men, the gentle breath of a campfire, so unlike the deadly flare of guns.
Gradually men had come to him: men broken but hiding their pain, till their two am screams; men visited by visions of blood just as he was. And he and the men had talked, and slowly the men had healed, and word had spread of the man by the gate who was good for a yarn and a cuppa from the billy on the fire.
A gentle life, ripped open by Sophie Higgs. Sophie, who he had loved, comforted, slept with, who had deserted him in misunderstanding to marry Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings, leaving him Dr Daniel Greenman, psychiatrist, once again, but without her support beside him.
‘John’ had vanished the night he’d held Sophie in his arms. He had remained Dr Daniel Greenman — mostly. Dr Greenman remembered being John, but Daniel lived only in the present, away from the memory of every man he’d failed in France, every death, every scream of agony, every desperate face waiting as the life seeped out of it, waiting, waiting, waiting until they died before he could even begin to try to heal them.
Dr Daniel Greenman had established a life, even a psychiatric practice, now centred on the Bald Hill Repatriation Clinic an outpost of Sydney’s Callan Park Mental Hospital, for those soldiers who needed more quiet and normal life around them than actual therapy. Dr Greenman could even cope, mostly, with his memories. When he could not he walked, and talked to Sophie, till slowly the feeling of ineffable failure faded and he could accept that Daniel Greenman, husband, father, doctor, friend, had a right to walk upon the earth.
There had only been one lapse before, when Sophie had been kept up north by floodwaters for three weeks, a morning like this when he found he had wandered from the homestead, with no memory of how he’d got there. A colleague, a close friend, had helped him then, six months of therapy he had carefully kept from Sophie. Sophie must be free to run her business, not feel bound to a husband who needed her to keep him in the present.
But the colleague was in the army now, vanished with so many Australian soldiers in Malaya, and last night, the past week, he had not held Sophie, and war had come again. John had crept over him once more in the darkness.
Daniel let himself watch a puffball of cloud, listen to the kookaburras’ chortle, then stood up and brushed twigs from his suit, glad he didn’t have to walk back in his pyjamas. He washed his face quickly in the river, thankful that the beard Sophie claimed he had grown to look like Dr Freud meant he did not need a daily shave.
He must be Dr Greenman now, for his patients, for the staff at Thuringa. He must be Pa for his two children, both due home from boarding school in a couple of months for the Christmas holidays. He had to tell Rose and Danny the cover story agreed on in those hurried two hours while Sophie packed and attended to the most urgent business matters. Sophie was ostensibly in Townsville — almost impossible to contact
now with the Japanese bombing — sorting out a problem with one of the corned beef factories so vital for the war effort.
That tale would do for the time being, or even until Christmas. There’d been no hint about how long Sophie would be needed in that spare telegram. Possibly, hopefully, she was wanted merely as part of a team to discuss how the Empire could continue to feed Britain with increasingly limited shipping. But a request like that would almost certainly have gone through normal business channels, and not in a melodramatic summons from Lily Vaile.
He was not jealous of Lily. True, Sophie loved her — adored might even be a better term. But that love had never been the kind he and Sophie shared, and nor did Daniel Greenman subscribe to the fallacy that one love lessened another. Only selfish love was indulgent enough to shun the world and make a nation of two. Love for one person, on the contrary, should deepen one’s ability to love others too.
Besides Lily Vaile was too good — the simple word was appropriate — for jealousy to be possible. Lily had genuinely wished for Sophie and Daniel’s marriage. The happiness of others made her happy. Lily had taught that gift to Sophie, too.
Lily had also taught Sophie to put duty to others, including her country or the peace of the world, above all else. No, he did not think Sophie would be back for Christmas.
But he would manage, he told himself. Sophie’s sudden departure had been a shock, but establishing routines without her would steady him. There would be a telegram soon, to say she had arrived; more telegrams, and letters, though letter arrivals were unreliable these days. Now he knew a relapse was possible he would be careful to avoid triggers, especially in the evening.
He had listened to the news on the wireless last night. From now on he’d avoid the news except for the morning broadcast and the newspaper. Midge and Harry had asked him to Sunday dinner, too — that would help. Midge was no fool, and she and Harry had known him first as John. Daniel suspected both would find excuses to invite him to dinner often once they knew Sophie was away for longer than a few days in Sydney.
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 2
