Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  I haven’t mentioned to Rose and Danny in my letters to them at school that I might be in Townsville so long. That news might be better kept for the school holidays. What a time we live in, when even the number and timing of shipments of corned beef must be secret.

  Darling Daniel, I cannot say how much I miss you, and love you, because I would shock the censor. Please remember all my previous statements on those subjects. PLEASE remember them and never forget. You are here in my heart, even if I cannot touch your hand.

  Give my dearest love to Rose and Danny, and my anguish at not being there for Christmas. Perhaps only you can guess how much I wished this had not been necessary. But I promise that we will have Easter, at least, all together.

  I love you more than I can say,

  Sophie

  ‘Please do take notes, Miss Jane.’ Fräulein — no name given — spoke German in almost the same accent as Hannelore: hoch Deutsch, aristocratic and possibly even from the same region as Hannelore’s northern estates, now all in Russian hands, apart from the Bavarian hunting lodge. Or had the estates been retaken by the Nazis? That might not necessarily mean her getting them back.

  ‘The Civil Security Police are now as follows: the Gestapo,’ continued Fräulein, for the German lessons combined information with language skills, ‘the state political police and the Kripo, the state criminal police, now effectively working as one, under the umbrella, if you will, of the SS — the Gestapo owes greater allegiance to the Nazi Party than the Kripo, of course. They, and all SS officers, are not subject to the political or judicial system of any country and may work independently. They wear plain clothes and only their documents — which are with them at all times — identify them. If identification is essential then you need to find an opportunity to look for their documents — the identity disc of the Gestapo, the red identity card and the SS membership card.

  ‘At times, however, both Gestapo and SS may do work of a paramilitary nature, in which case they wear a field-grey uniform, a peaked cap with a death’s head, a tunic with back collar patches, rank on the left.’

  Field-grey uniform, thought Sophie, imagining Dolphie in one. A peaked cap with a death’s head . . .

  ‘The Sicherheitsdienst, the SD, on the other hand, is the SS’s information arm, and occupied mostly with civilian sedition, political espionage in neutral countries. Their agents are usually of a higher grade than the Gestapo’s. Do not underestimate them, Miss Jane, though the Gestapo is more commonly feared. The Sicherheitsdienst tend to have more powerful connections. Often their identity is not known even to Gestapo agents and they may also act under cover as Gestapo agents. If a man of high military rank is not obviously attached to a regiment, suspect Sicherheitsdienst.’

  Sicherheitsdienst, thought Sophie. Dolphie would almost certainly be Sicherheitsdienst . . .

  ‘Fräulein.’ Sophie spoke almost without thinking. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘And not in Germany?’ The Fräulein gazed at her hands, then looked up, not quite hiding her anguish. ‘I had a niece,’ she said quietly, no longer in the clipped tones of an instructress. ‘My sister’s child, a girl of joy, so loving, so intelligent, but born blind. An Untermensch,’ she added bitterly, ‘according to the Nazis. My sister’s husband divorced her, for the crime of polluting the Aryan race. We . . . my sister and I, and my employer back then . . . tried to find refuge with my employer in England. We were too late. The Nazis murdered my niece and every other child in the school for the blind.’

  The Fräulein met Sophie’s eyes. ‘We must destroy the Nazis and the evil of their philosophy. Whatever your mission, Miss Jane, I cannot express how much I hope you succeed.’

  ‘Communication, of course, is the key.’ The small grey-headed woman with a Belgian accent nodded at Sophie. ‘You will know how we of La Dame Blanche used to knit our codes to be taken to Britain. That will not work for you, Miss Jane. Postcards sent to a collection point are useful — a postcard is so open and obvious it receives less censorship scrutiny than a letter, though if the person you have written to becomes a suspect, you will be too.

  ‘For you, an advertisement is best. You will lose an earring and place a weekly advertisement offering a reward for its return. You may also advertise for staff, or whatever occurs to you. But the words you include will tell us what you want. The word “possibly” will mean you are ready to return to England. “Large” will mean you need to pass on more information. I will give you a list of words to memorise tonight.

  ‘The key, however, will be another word, which you will memorise, a new one every week, which must be included. That will tell us it is indeed you who sends the message. Longer messages must be given to those who contact you. The code will be a simple substitution one — based on a poem is best, as it is easiest to remember under pressure.’

  ‘So, we’ll go no more a roving,

  So late into the night,’ murmured Sophie, suddenly thinking of her last night at Shillings with Nigel.

  ‘Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.’

  ‘That will suit well. So, A now becomes N, and B becomes O . . .’

  Sophie nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Excellent. If you ever need help urgently you must phone this number. It is for emergencies only, if, for example, you need immediate extraction or have information that must be passed on within a few hours.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Sophie again.

  ‘Good. It is too dangerous to phone a contact directly — there are few private phones in France, so any call can be easily traced. Few in the resistance have access to a private phone anyway. This number will take you to a bistro that takes messages for any customer. But only use it if you have no other alternative — the owner will not volunteer information to the Germans, but he will probably cooperate with them if questioned and threatened. Once it has been used we cannot use it again.’

  ‘I understand,’ Sophie repeated.

  ‘Here is a list of code phrases. “Tell Michelle there will be rabbit for dinner on Saturday” means you have information which is too urgent to wait for an advertisement. “Tell Michelle that Anna needs her bicycle returned” means you need a refuge or escape immediately. “Hugo won’t be at Maman’s for lunch” —’

  ‘Pardon, Madame, but if I urgently need a refuge I might not have time to wait for a message to be delivered.’

  ‘There will be an answer waiting for that one.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to tell me where the refuge might be now?’

  ‘Much easier, but far less safe for those in France. Besides, the refuge could change. You are not the only one who may need a hiding place in Paris. Now “Hugo won’t be at Maman’s for lunch” will mean . . .’

  A woman with short grey hair, a face like an axe and eyes that refused to see Sophie as a person, perhaps because she had seen too many lost and one more would be more than memory could bear, appeared at Shillings only on Tuesday afternoons; her main work obviously elsewhere. She had no name here, for she did not stay for any meal. Hereward simply called her ‘ma’am’.

  ‘Interrogation initially will begin with alternating poor and good food, comfort and discomfort, a soft approach.’ Her voice was matter of fact. ‘The prisoner may be at one end of a long room while the officer at the other end works at his desk, apparently not aware the prisoner is there. You will be threatened with the firing squad.’

  ‘Will the firing squad be just a threat?’ asked Sophie quietly.

  ‘Possibly. You may even hear rifles at dawn, a display purely to try to break you. But a firing squad is the penalty for any enemy who does not wear the uniform of a combatant. If they believe you will be of no more use, they may dispose of you. Or there may be mercy. It does exist, even in occupied Europe. Beware any guard, warder or fellow prisoner who befriends you and then asks questions. Have straightforward answers prepared and stick to them. Pretend to be more exhausted than you are — they may then a
sk the more important questions, so the questioning will be over sooner . . .’

  Perhaps it was the air of Shillings, even though she did not sleep at the Hall, but every night she dreamed of her times there and woke surprised to find herself in the bed at the cottage.

  Sometimes she, Hannelore, Emily and poor dead Mouse made a snowman, while Miss Lily gazed indulgently from the breakfast room, where the salvers steamed with food almost forgotten in England now — the bright yellow buttery rice and smoked fish of kedgeree, kidneys with bacon, finnan haddock, scrambled eggs with buttered mushrooms, poached eggs on their own small rafts of toast. More fresh toast to eat with lavish butter and a choice of jams and Mrs Goodenough’s exquisite marmalade was brought in at regular intervals by Jones in his guise as butler: far more food than any of them would sample, but an education in how things should be done for the two girls in straitened circumstances, and for Sophie, wealthy but ignorant of aristocratic life.

  Mostly she dreamed of sitting with Lily in the small drawing room where Dorothy now presided, while Lily talked of Balkan politics, or how to hide a sandwich snack in one’s train for an extended and underfed formal evening at the palace, or the correct gifts for a maid, cook or footman who was leaving to get married.

  The young Sophie Higgs had never been able to ask absolutely anything before, much less have it answered: what did High Church vicars wear under their black skirts? (Trousers, so disappointing.) And Scotsmen under their kilts? (A far more satisfactory answer, and a scandalous anecdote about Queen Victoria and a guardsman as well.) Why had the Germanic states federated, much like Australia, but somehow ended up with the Kaiser as king, instead of all the other royal contenders?

  She often woke from those both smiling and in tears. It was deeply satisfying to be with Nigel again, even in his guise of Bob, and despite her longing for home. But Miss Lily was missing, both officially and in her heart, and while this could be borne at Thuringa with her family around her, it was unendurable here.

  But this was war, when the unendurable happened every day, and you (mostly) managed to get through it.

  The name she gave was Miss Portia. Sophie grinned. If one of England’s greatest actresses had truly wanted to be anonymous, she would not have assumed the name of the role that had made her famous.

  The delicate-featured woman before her had not followed that success, as many did, into film, possibly because by the time talkies had become popular she had been well past the age of most major roles for women. ‘Miss Portia’ must now be in her eighties, her white hair softly curled, her face carved with the laughter, kindness and fury of the hundred heroines whose lives she had briefly inhabited.

  It occurred to Sophie that Miss Portia, too, might well have been a lovely lady at some stage of her life, one of the earliest perhaps. One day, after the war, if both she and Miss Portia survived it, she might ask.

  Miss Portia was one of the few who knew the identity Sophie must assume. The actress looked at Sophie thoughtfully. ‘You are the Comtesse de Brabant, which means you were once a chorus girl who called herself an actress.’ She shrugged. ‘If you had truly been an actress, you would not have given up the stage. Luckily your lack of any true interest in the dramatic arts means you don’t know any of the luminaries in the profession. You lived in seclusion in the south of France — Vichy France — till your husband’s death, for although he was fifty-two years older than you and in delicate health when you married fourteen years ago, he heartlessly lived to eighty-five.’

  ‘Miss Portia, I’m not sure I can pass for thirty-three,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘I was taught that one can be beautiful at any age and have never tried to look younger than I am. I also suspect my skin has seen far too much sun.’

  The actress smiled. ‘Luckily the comtesse loved to sunbathe. Her husband’s family refused to meet her and will certainly try not to meet her now, nor recognise her if they did. He refused to let her meet up with her former friends.’

  ‘I feel rather sorry for her.’

  Miss Portia nodded. ‘A luxurious cage — not even shopping trips to Paris, it seemed. A local dressmaker copied the patterns from Vogue. Her maid described the comtesse dancing to record after record, by herself, in the ballroom. She drank a mix of Cointreau and champagne throughout the day, a hideous waste of both, but you need not follow her example in that. As for your age,’ Miss Portia smiled, bringing a wave of affection and reassurance, ‘you are fit — muscles do not sag as plump skin does. Your hair must be bleached, as the comtesse’s is in her photograph. I am sorry to do that to such lovely hair as yours — I recommend an egg yolk conditioner each time you wash it, or comb with olive oil at night and have it washed the next morning, if eggs or olive oil are obtainable.’

  Sophie imagined Daniel’s response when she returned a bleached blonde. But perhaps a hair rinse might bring the colour back to her natural one.

  ‘We will also give you hair pieces to make yours appear longer and thicker, and with a slightly fluffier curl. It doesn’t matter if anyone discovers you use them — it would be seen as vanity, not disguise. Your make-up will also need to change. Would you mind moving over here into the direct light, Miss Jane?’

  Sophie obediently moved to the brocade chair by the window. Winter sun gleamed in a thin honey trickle onto her face as Miss Portia moved a mirror over to her.

  ‘Ah yes, a lighter shade of powder than you use now, I think, but use less of it.’ She wiped Sophie’s face gently with a wet cloth, then added half-a-dozen dabs of powder. ‘Do this when your face is still damp, and your skin will seem softer. A brighter lipstick, and mascara — age does thin the eyelashes. You see what I am doing with the lipstick? A dab on the top of each cheekbone, then rub it in along here. Powdered rouge does age one, I’m afraid, but using whichever lipstick matches your dress on your cheeks will counteract the slight effects of gravity — the very, very slight effects, my dear. Now almond oil, just the merest dab on the points of your forehead and sides of your nose. See? They must not appear oily, but skin loses its natural oils as we age.

  ‘Now, apply eyeliner. Perhaps try it yourself — a line just under the lower lashes, and another beginning a third of the way across the top of your lashes and extending just a little way beyond.’

  Sophie stared at the image evolving in front of her. Even with her own hairstyle, she looked unfamiliar, and yes, younger. ‘I’m a painted lady?’

  ‘Well, the comtesse was on the stage, my dear, ever so briefly, and in the photograph on her papers is most definitely wearing mascara and eyeliner.’ She picked up what looked like two crayons. ‘This is theatrical make-up. Take the white and rub just a little below your eyebrow and upper eyelid, and two dabs on the skin between your nose and eyelids. Excellent. Now just the smallest amount below your eyes. Never powder anywhere around your eyes or mouth — if there is even a hint of a wrinkle it will accentuate it, but a little of this one around the mouth, and then a hint of the white on your nose — noses keep growing with age, and the white will counteract any shadow. Now the final effect — false eyelashes.’

  Sophie stared at what looked like two strange caterpillars. ‘What are they made of?’

  ‘Mink, of course, short to thicken your lashes, longer hairs to lengthen them. There, what do you think?’

  ‘That I would not ask the woman in the mirror to dinner,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘She would try to seduce my husband, sulk because he’d ignore her, and stub out her cigarette on the bread and butter plate.’

  Miss Portia laughed. ‘In other words, perfect. Now, these.’ She held out two thin sponges.

  Sophie eyed them dubiously. ‘What do I do with them?’

  ‘Place them between your top teeth and your cheeks. Exactly right. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Sophie frankly. The face that looked back at her was suddenly, subtly, not hers at all.

  ‘The face thins a little as we age, the cheeks sag, the faintest line forms between the outer nostrils a
nd the mouth, and the mouth to the chin. The pads lift the cheeks, plump out the wrinkles and change your face shape, too, making it rounder. Wear them even in bed, but wash them well with soap and hot water twice a day.’

  ‘My voice sounds different. It’s hard to articulate.’

  Miss Portia smiled. ‘Excellent. It will soften your slightly clipped pronunciation, which I gather the comtesse never quite managed to achieve. Your smile needs to change, too. Show more teeth. I know this is not good manners, but you must be in character. Throw your head back when you laugh. No, more of a giggle.’

  Sophie giggled, showing teeth, tossing back her hair.

  ‘Very good. But all of this,’ Miss Portia waved, ‘is almost irrelevant. Age — and class, for that matter — is the way you walk, the way you hold yourself, regard yourself. Without that no make-up can be effective. Shut your eyes.’

  Sophie obeyed. She heard the sound of curtains being pulled. ‘Open them, please.’

  A young woman strode towards her, smiling. She had changed so utterly that she was two yards away before Sophie recognised her instructress.

  Miss Portia laughed, bounced into her seat, then relaxed into old age again.

  ‘That was incredible,’ said Sophie truthfully.

  ‘Thank you. I played Juliet when I was forty-eight, though with very careful lighting, and not one single review mentioned my age. Now, walk for me, if you please. Ah yes, most swan-like.’

  So Miss Portia had been one of Miss Lily’s ladies, even if a mature one.

  ‘But you have the walk of an older swan. You carry your children, the problems of your family and friends — all that is in your walk. Open your arms, please, as if you have wings. You are a young swan, ready to fly. Feel your wings open, the air under them.’

  Sophie obeyed. It was silly, but suddenly she did feel lighter, could feel her face relaxing . . .

  ‘Tomorrow, or perhaps next week, you will soar towards the clouds. Who knows what you will find, only that it will be wonderful. Now imagine there is a light shining just above your breasts. What colour is it?’