Wars sometimes had a truce for Christmas. This one did not.
There will be other Christmases, she told herself firmly. There would be Christmas in that magical place called ‘after the war’, too, when Lily would visit Thuringa, and help them choose the perfect tree to cut, usually a red gum that had sprouted a fresh straight trunk after being lopped for a half-dozen-years-ago Christmas. Home-made lemon cordial on the verandah — Lily loved the Thuringa cordial, though it was never served at Shillings, possibly because lemons in England were never as rich and pungent as the ones of home . . .
‘Christmas Eve makes a good cover,’ said Nigel, starting the engine and still carefully showing no emotion. ‘The curfew will still be in place from nine pm but there’ll be celebrations, more people going from house to house. No one will be suspicious of a house with signs of activity at midnight.’
She nodded. Christmas Eve was a far more important event in France than here, or at home.
‘The weather forecast is good, low cloud and little wind.’
‘Good,’ she said shortly.
‘Sophie . . .’ His eyes held what might be anguish. ‘It’s not too late to pull out.’
‘Of course it is.’ So many had worked so long for this. She hoped that at the very least she was not shot while descending, unable to manoeuvre except by pulling on the strings of her parachute, nor in the first moment of vulnerability on the ground as she disentangled herself. Let her at least find enough information to have made her training worthwhile, some adequate recompense for the disappearance of Daniel’s wife, and Rose and Danny’s mother.
‘You do think we can trust Violette?’ she asked abruptly.
‘You defended her to James.’ He turned the car onto a minor road, then turned again into a lane, tufted with winter grass, the colour bleached by cold. Sophie suddenly longed for a glimpse of vividness again: the endless blue above Thuringa, a flock of king parrots in Christmas green and red, shrieking as they invaded the apple trees. She forced her mind back to the present.
‘I know I defended her. But I’ve realised I only knew her in one incarnation. She’s had so many lives, her childhood with that mad old murderess, her time in the orphanage, the years living on the streets. It’s been six years since I’ve seen her.’
‘Two things have never seemed to change through all those transformations. Her hatred of Germans and her loyalty to other women — those of whom she approves.’
‘I’m not sure that’s an answer.’
‘Nor am I. At least she doesn’t know you are coming. If you have the least suspicion of doubt when you meet her, vanish. It’s better for this mission to fail than for the Nazis to know there is serious doubt among high-echelon officers. Put that advertisement in any newspaper on the list and we’ll get you out of there, or phone the bistro. A contact will be with you within half an hour to hand you a small case with fresh identity papers, different clothes, scissors, hair dye and a place to wait until we can bring you safely back to England.’
Sophie nodded. Assuming there was still an England to safely come back to, or an Australia unconquered by the Japanese.
Impossible to tell how much danger her own country was in from the accounts in the newspapers, but James had told her that Australian troops had been holding their own against the Japanese in New Guinea, the first forces ever to hold them back, though James had added that was as much due to the exhaustion of starving Japanese troops and impossibly gruelling terrain and weather as Allied strategy or the Diggers’ tenacity. The Japanese needed to capture Port Moresby to harry or even halt US forces. They needed Australian iron and foundries, ship-building yards and coalmines to resupply their dwindling stocks. Australian agricultural produce was vital for starving troops and even the underfed civilians in their homeland. If the Japanese could be held back from those resources . . .
Thuringa, she thought. I should be with my people, my family while we face this, not here in England. Mr Churchill had even refused to send Australian troops back from the Middle East to defend their own country. If Hitler goes, if there is peace with Germany, will England — battered, starved and deeply in debt to the USA — be prepared to help Australia against the Japanese? Or would they focus on India, the jewel in the Empire’s crown?
‘You look far away. Thuringa?’
‘British foreign policy. I doubt Britain will ever recognise the debt they owe to their Empire.’
Bob carefully negotiated a rut in the country road. She wondered where he was taking her; she also realised that if she was leaving tonight it was best she did not even know the name of the aerodrome. ‘Of course not. Britain will never admit how much they owe the colonies. Just as the general public will never acknowledge its debt to Welsh coalminers, Bermudan slaves or women who die in childbirth to create the next generation, or all the others to whom they owe their lives or prosperity. Shall we change the subject to something less gloomy? I have a treat for you.’
‘Letters?’ she asked eagerly. She would at least have her Christmas letters.
‘And some gifts you would have been given tomorrow. I’ll keep them safe for you till you get back, I promise. But there’s another surprise, first.’
The car stopped by a hedge opposite a gate. He hauled a picnic basket from the back seat.
‘A winter picnic in a paddock full of thistles? We’ll freeze!’
‘No, you won’t. And this isn’t for me. Come on.’
Sophie opened the door, breathed in the scent of cold stone walls and colder mud. Another car was parked behind the hedge, the motor running — only an official vehicle would have the luxury of so much petrol. The back door opened.
‘Soapie lass! Don’t stand there. Get in out of the wind.’
‘Ethel!’
Ethel swept her into a gorilla hug, warm strong arms, smelling of cocoa and talcum powder. Sophie found she was crying, and Ethel was too. ‘I didn’t think I would have a chance to see you.’
‘And you’ve told me far more than you realise in one sentence.’ Ethel moved back, studied her. ‘I’m not sure about the hairstyle, lass. And those high heels could take out a man’s eye if you could manage a knees up in them.’
‘I don’t like my hair just now either. Peroxide smells. And my ankles, knees and back ache thanks to these wretched shoes.’ At least she had not had to wear them at Ringwater. Even the Comtesse de Brabant could not parachute in high heels. Sophie slid into the back seat, already sagging under Ethel’s weight.
Ethel still wore the make-up Violette had shown her how to use, her once shaggy eyebrows plucked and slightly defined, and some war-time substitute for rouge and lipstick to make her cheekbones more pronounced, and pinken her extremely pretty lips. Her suit was appropriate for the office, but the blouse was feminine, and the tailored jacket accentuated her figure instead of trying to disguise it.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said Bob briefly, and walked back to their own car.
Sophie watched him go. How much work must he have put into this meeting?
‘He’s scared for you,’ said Ethel. ‘He came up to London last Sunday. It were a shock to see him, I can tell you. When I heard there’d been no word from Lily I was sure she must have been killed. It must have took me five minutes to even believe I weren’t seeing a ghost. But then when you’ve died once I suppose it’s easier the second time. I’m that sorry for telling George she’d died. But it didn’t occur to me he’d see you till long after the war was over.’
She rooted around in Bob’s picnic basket. ‘Scotch eggs! Oh my, how I have longed for a Scotch egg. And singin’ hinnies. Mrs Goodenough is a fair treasure. I suppose it’s all her doing?’
‘Bob must have told her I was meeting you. Ethel, you and James —’
‘Now that I don’t want to talk about. Tell me about Midge and the boys. Tell me everything you couldn’t let the censor see in your letters.’
‘You and James suit,’ said Sophie stubbornly.
‘Nay, Soapie lass. James and
I are such opposite bookends that when you put us together we make a half-decent whole. But I can’t come at what he does.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Our James has spent his life working with women. He’s one of the few men I know who can take orders from one, too. But all the women he’s worked with agree with what he’s doing. He gets flapdoodled with one who doesn’t.’
‘Ethel, I hope I never have to kill anyone. My mission is different. But if I have to, I will kill. Maybe more than one.’
‘Aye, and Anne and her husband are out in Mesopotamia again, and they’re not digging up ruins in war-time, and one of my nephews is fighting in Africa, and a dozen others I know and love one way and another are fighting, too. But I don’t have to share a breakfast table with them every morning, wondering who died because of them in the night.’
Sophie’s words vanished.
Ethel raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You’re not going to argue?’
‘That Hitler must be stopped, and the only way to do it is fight this war? No. You’d have heard better arguments than I can give and listened to them, too. Tell me about the Ministry of Food.’
‘It’s classified and that should tell you everything. Who’d bother classifying a recipe for eggless, sugarless steamed pud? Will knowing you add grated carrot for sweetness win the war for Mr Hitler if he finds out? The only thing in our carefully locked filing cabinets that might help him is to know where and when supplies come to England, and what our food reserves are. And the answer to that is about enough to last us till next Tuesday, which is the position Germany is in, too.’
‘You’re fed up with it?’
‘Fed up to the back teeth. About ten per cent of what we do is worthwhile, Soapie, but without that ten per cent it’s all over. Rationing means there’s enough for everyone — or not quite enough, but enough to keep us going. It means the poor don’t starve and the rich pay for their supplies on the black market and we sometimes even get to put them in gaol for it. It means orange juice for the kiddies and hot lunches for the workers. I’ve got one of Lily’s last girls — 1939 — working for me, pretending to type, but really she charms visiting Americans into selling us more cans of Spam. I don’t suppose you can say what you are doing?’
‘No. Ethel, if . . . if I don’t come back, can you do three things for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Find Hannelore, if you can. She may be dead, or a prisoner. She may be swanning around in a castle. But offer her a visit to Australia if it’s possible, no matter where she is or what she’s been doing. I promised her kangaroos once. I want to keep my promise.’
‘The next?’
‘Go to Australia, or wait till Daniel and the children come to England — they will have to at some stage, with Danny’s position. When you see them tell them they are more important to me than the entire Empire, or the whole world, but because they are part of this world, will inherit this world, I have to do this. And the third — as soon as you hear I am dead go and see James. He’ll need someone to hold his hand, and no one else will dare do that. Just for an hour. Please.’
A pause. At last Ethel nodded. ‘I will.’
Chapter 15
Baked Chips with Thyme and Garlic: A War-time Recipe
Oil, lard or vegetable shortening
2 large potatoes, washed but with skins left on, thickly sliced
Salt
Fresh or dried thyme
2 cloves garlic, halved
Wipe oil or lard thinly over a baking tray, heat in a hot oven until warm and the oil or fat thins. Add the potato and toss until covered in oil/fat, sprinkle with salt and thyme. Add the garlic halves. Bake in a moderate oven for 20 minutes or so until potato is crisp and light brown.
A French Recipe
VIOLETTE
Violette woke, smiling, on her perfumed sheets. She had been dreaming. A strange dream, meandering it seemed for years. She had worn a long skirt and small children clustered around while she read them a story. Twenty children, perhaps, her children . . .
Pah! Impossible. She could not imagine having one child and most certainly not twenty. Violette lay back, looking at the grey light dawning between the curtains. She had always loved this time of the day, the opening of possibilities. Sometimes before the curfew of the Boche she had walked through the night, here in the streets of Paris, or even back under the strange twisted limbs of the trees of Thuringa, just to see the first moment when black became not quite black, holding her breath for the first thread of light.
She and George had spent their last night together awake. He’d had a sudden twenty-four-hour leave almost a fortnight before Dunkirk.
They had not left the bedroom except to forage in the kitchen for a loaf, butter, cheese, a pot of caviar, smoked salmon and the cold roast lamb Violette liked more than either caviar or salmon. She had bought the caviar and salmon because it was proper to have such available when one’s lover came to call, but George preferred his bread well buttered and with thick hunks of cold lamb too.
Violette had pulled the curtains half an hour before the dawn, turning off the bed lamp so no one might see in. She had lain in his arms, pillows behind them, waiting for the light.
‘I love you, you know,’ George said conversationally.
She turned to look at him and punched him lightly on the chest. ‘That is not how you tell a woman you love her. This is not the place or time either!’
‘Eh, that’s true enough. But I might not get another chance to tell you for a while.’
‘The Boche will not take Paris. They failed before and will again.’
‘I think they will, you know,’ said George quietly. ‘Are you sure you won’t leave for England?’
Violette shrugged. ‘You do not abandon a friend in trouble. Paris is my friend.’
‘What about not abandoning me?’
‘You will be busy with your “not fighting”.’ They had discussed this, many times, or rather tried to, for each time they reached a place that Violette’s mind could not imagine, where every life had equal value, when it so obviously did not. Violette’s life began with her and radiated outwards, a few others circling like planets about her personal sun. George’s, it seemed, took in all of humanity. Though, of course, most particularly her.
‘Will you marry me, at least?’ George reached over and took a small Cartier box from the pocket of his trousers on the chair. She opened it. A diamond winked up at her, large enough to hold the starlight. It was easy to forget that George Carryman was rich, like his Aunt Ethel, for both lived simply, using their wealth to buy planes and fund charities. And for a ring.
‘C’est bon. I do not want to give it back,’ she said honestly.
He laughed. ‘Then don’t.’
‘But I do not want to marry you, either. I do not want to not marry you,’ she added quickly, seeing the sudden pain in his eyes. ‘I do not think this is a good time for marrying.’
‘It’s the best of times. The one certainty we would have would be each other.’
‘But we would not be certain, not if the Boche take Paris. We will not see each other, not even know if the other is alive perhaps.’
‘I know I love you. I know I always will.’
‘How can you know that? You have not been to the future, like you have not been to the moon. You could say “the moon is made of green cheese” and no one could say different.’
‘The moon is made of green cheese and I will love you forever.’ He took her hand.
Something broke inside her. It would be stitched tomorrow — such small breaks always were. But just now she found herself saying, ‘Then I will believe it with you. The moon is made of green cheese.’
‘And you love me?’
‘I will always love you. I will not marry you, not now. But I am not giving back this ring!’
‘It is an engagement ring,’ he said patiently. ‘If you wear it we are engaged.’
‘Not if I wear it on a gold chain about my neck. Always, and never take it off, un
til you put it on my finger.’ He had leaned towards her then . . .
‘Mademoiselle?’ Violette’s mind stuttered out of the land of memory to the present day, where Gisette stood in her black dress and maid’s cap at the door. ‘Kolonel the Count von Hoffenhausen is here. He says he has come for breakfast. He has brought coffee!’
‘Thank you, Gisette. Please tell the Kolonel I will be there directly. No, I will dress myself.’
Today’s violet dress was already laid out in her dressing room, a heavy creamy-mauve silk embossed with deeper purple flowers, the sleeves left open like small capes, and pleats towards the hem of the tightly fitted skirt opening to show lilac lace, also pleated, in tiny waterfalls around her knees. A dress to make any woman imagine that when she wore it she was beautiful. She washed her face, ran a comb through her hair, two dabs of powder and lipstick, made sure the ring on its chain was hidden under the neckline of her dress, then walked steadily, careful not to seem to hurry in any way, to the dining room.
The scent of coffee greeted her: far better coffee than she had recently been able to buy from the dentist one of her customers had recommended. The colonel stood as she came in, the coffee cup in front of him. He bowed most correctly, clicking his heels. He knew better than to wait till she came close so he could kiss the air above her hand.
‘Unless you have brought eggs too, Kolonel, you will have toast only, and no butter or jam.’ Violette had both, of course, but it would be unwise to show such evidence of her black-market connections.
‘I brought eggs and pork sausage and, as you can see, coffee.’
‘Bon. Then you may eat them.’ She took her place at the table, and poured herself coffee as he added, ‘What have you for me?’
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 11
