‘But not as cold as you. I have an inbuilt … how do you say … radiator.’
‘No!’ she insisted. ‘We have to manage on our own. How would I feel if I stayed warm and then woke up to find you frozen to the marrow.’ She pulled up her own collar, and Thierry shrugged and sat down again.
‘Marrow? A vegetable, no?’
‘Yes. But it’s also what’s inside your bones.’
‘Frozen to the marrow …’ he murmured. ‘Frozen to the courgette …’ He glanced sideways at Rosamund and smiled. ‘That’s what we say in French,’ he said, adding, ‘but then you know that …’
‘I know no such thing. “Frozen to the courgette”, indeed …’ And then she began to laugh.
‘Shhh!’ exclaimed Thierry. ‘You will wake our friend Eric.’
Rosamund glanced across to where Eric was now snoring gently. ‘I don’t think anything is going to wake Eric.’
‘We could slip out and leave him to his dreams,’ said Thierry mischievously.
‘Tempting,’ admitted Rosamund. ‘But we’d better stick together.’
‘Stick together, stick together,’ murmured Thierry. ‘Always stick together.’
He thought for a moment and then asked, ‘Who do you stick together with, Rosamund? Is there a man? An amour?’
‘Yes. There is.’ She thought for a moment and then corrected herself. ‘At least, there was.’
Thierry regarded her enquiringly.
‘We met just a few weeks before he had to leave. That was a year ago.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘Just the once.’
‘No more?’
‘No. I don’t think he can write. I mean, I don’t think he’s in a position to write. To communicate. His work is rather like ours will be.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes. Very. At least, I think so.’
‘But you will wait for him? Wait until he comes back?’
‘Yes.’
‘If he comes back?’
She turned to face him. ‘Yes.’
Thierry nodded. ‘Lucky man.’
‘And you?’ asked Rosamund.
‘Me? Oh, I am … how shall I put it … a free agent.’
‘Unattached?’
Thierry gave one of his habitual shrugs. ‘I guess so.’
‘You don’t sound very sure …’
‘It is as well during this war not to get too attached to anyone or anything, I fear. For both may be taken away. In war one must live from day to day and take love where one can find it.’
Rosamund shook her head. ‘How very French.’
‘But I am French.’
‘Yes, you are. Very.’
‘Is that so bad? You could be French yourself. You speak as though you were. You have no English accent, nor him, oddly …’ he nodded in the direction of the slumbering radio operator. ‘You, too, could be more … philosophical, more … relaxed. Perhaps you would find it more enjoyable.’
Rosamund sighed. ‘There is nothing about this war which is remotely enjoyable.’
‘Of course not; but we must learn to live for today. To take each day as it comes; to treat it as though it were our last, and to live it to the full.’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
Thierry leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. Rosamund pulled away, shocked at the gesture she had not seen coming.
Thierry smiled at her. ‘Sleep. We must try to sleep.’
‘Yes, we must,’ she answered reprovingly. She turned away from him and hunkered down against her backpack.
‘Dormez bien,’ he replied.
‘Oui, dormez bien.’ She realised that, without thinking, they had been speaking in English. It would not be long before that would become inadvisable.
Thanks to the exertions of the night, sleep came swiftly, in spite of the cold. When she woke, she found herself lying against Thierry. He was still fast asleep. Carefully she stood up and walked to the shattered window; a strong breeze was blowing at a length of sacking that had once been used as a crude curtain. The sky had cleared, washed clean by a deluge of heavy Highland rain, and the moon was rising. They had slept for long enough – at this time of year nights were short in the Highlands; they would need to crack on. As she looked out across the heather, she saw a single figure drop behind a distant boulder at the foot of the mountain. She turned, shook Thierry awake and then crossed to wake Eric from his deep and rumbling slumbers. ‘We need to go,’ she said urgently. ‘And not northwards. Come on. We don’t have much time.’
It was not an easy journey; the moon kept dipping behind scudding clouds and they had to frequently stop for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, all the while being aware that they might stumble across the ‘enemy’ and fail in their mission.
Then they reached a narrow chasm between two outcrops of granite. Eric Ridley went first, throwing his radio across the six-foot gap, making sure that it landed on a soft cushion of heather. They had encountered such obstacles before; this was just another one in their way. Eric leapt after his radio, landed, picked it up and threw it across his shoulder, making way for Thierry who sprang across the wide gap, rolled in the heather and got to his feet as though he had already undertaken parachute training. The two men moved on, their heads down, butting against the strengthening wind and the threat of a rising sun that would make clear their whereabouts to anyone scouring the terrain with binoculars. Rosamund, who had been some way behind them, reached the chasm and made to leap after them, but as she jumped, her foot caught in a snaking stem of heather. It held her fast for a moment before her foot twisted free and she slipped down the deep gully. She flung herself forward and both her hands instinctively reached out for support and grabbed a cluster of wiry, woody stems that hung over the precipitous edge on the opposite rockface. Dangling above the deep abyss, she fought for breath, knowing that the two men had gone on ahead and realising that to shout and attract their attention would also mean that she would give away their position to the ‘enemy’.
For what seemed like an age, she fought the conflicting emotions that rattled in her head. Should she cry out and risk failure in their mission? Would it prove she was nothing more than a weak woman – a liability on any sortie involving physical exertion? And yet, if she let go the stems and fell to the bottom of the deep gully, she would at best break her legs and at worst …
Her heart pounding in her chest, she kicked her legs, the better to gain purchase on the smooth and slippery rocks. Damn! To have come this far, only to prove she did not have what it took after all …
Irritation and anger now crowded her mind and she felt tears of frustration spring to her eyes. And still she kicked, hoping that at any moment her boots might find purchase and she would be able to scramble out and catch up with Thierry and Eric. But every effort made her weaker. The sky was beginning to turn pale; the sun would soon be up and she would be discovered … what? Hanging there helplessly, or in a lifeless heap at the bottom of the deep gully? It would be the latter, for her arms were failing now and the twisted stems would soon slip from her grasp.
As all these thoughts raced through her mind, she heard a voice she knew. ‘It is too risky. Stay where you are and look after your aunt.’ It was Harry’s voice. How right he had been. She should have stayed where she was. And proved him right? No! She could do this. No! She could not. She had tried and she had failed. She was a weak woman who would have been better off staying at home, running church bazaars and knitting mufflers.
She heard a voice again, but this time it was not Harry’s. ‘Grab my hand! Quickly! Grab my hand!’
It was Thierry. He was reaching down. But her hands were weak now; her arms screaming with pain. She was not heavy in herself, but with the added weight of her clothing, her boots and her backpack, it was all she could do to retain her grip on the twisted heather. Her head began to spin. Her vision of him was blurred, yet still she managed somehow to cling on, nothing more. She felt his han
ds tighten around her wrists, felt herself rising upwards as if to heaven.
Then all of a sudden she was lying prone on the heather, her chest heaving as she battled for breath, both men hovering anxiously over her. ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ she murmured.
‘And so are you.’
She detected a note of relief in his voice. And was there something else, too?
‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘Can we carry on? It is not much farther now, and the sun is rising.’
Still panting, she nodded and stumbled to her feet. ‘Just a little setback,’ she explained.
‘Is that what you would call yourself? A little setback?’
Rosamund swung her arm and slapped him across the chest, but she had no more breath to answer him further.
‘You’re a tough’un, I’ll say that for you,’ said Eric, clearly impressed with her stamina. ‘Not many girls I know would have managed that.’
‘Thank you, Eric,’ she managed. ‘Nice to have a compliment.’
Thierry smiled. ‘Nearly there.’
Two hours later they arrived at the rendezvous indicated on their map, undetected and triumphant. In spite of his incessant teasing, it was all Rosamund could do to resist giving Thierry a kiss there and then.
I am not sure now whether I really expected to get through the assessment. I knew I was determined, but so much of one’s life is dictated by outside agencies and by abilities, which, until they are called upon, one does not realise one possesses. I knew then, and I know now, that I am relatively stubborn and determined, but that does not always translate itself into tenacity, for tenacity is different to stubbornness. Stubbornness can so easily turn into pig-headedness, whereas tenacity involves a degree of reasoning and flexibility – a way of surmounting difficulties by inventiveness and adaptability – two characteristics which I like to think that I do possess, thanks in no small measure to my experiences with the SOE.
It was at the end of our training at Wanborough when I realised that if nothing else happened to me during the war, at least I had come this far; I had made the effort, I had ‘stepped up to the plate’ – to use that dreadful modern expression – and proved that I had it in me to be the equal of those men around me – even if, on occasion, they had helped me through a bad patch. The men I worked with would, I hope, admit that there were times when I had helped them, too.
This ‘give and take’ between men and women is something that is often overlooked these days. I certainly regard myself as a feminist. I recognise that men and women have different strengths and weaknesses, but as individuals, rather than by gender. I am lost in admiration for those suffragettes who had the courage of their convictions – and the tenacity – to fight for the right to vote and for greater equality in many things.
Some argue that the situation has changed but little. I am not one of them. Yes, I have met men who were cruel and misogynistic, but I have also met men who are sensitive and considerate. I have met women who have been deceitful, bullying and as cruel as any man, and others who have been kind, supportive and generous of spirit. To suggest that any of these attributes are the sole prerogative of men or women is absurd. These are sentiments that will not endear me to some members of my sex, but they have been arrived at over a lifetime of experience and observation. I am old-fashioned, I know, but I have come to realise that the female sex has at its disposal an armoury every bit as effective as that of the male of the species; it is just that the weaponry involved is of a different nature to that of our male counterparts. It can be more subtle, perhaps – and some would say rather more surreptitious and calculating – but when it comes to achieving one’s goal, it can be every bit as effective. As my friend Thierry Foustier would have put it: ‘Vive la difference.’
Ah, Thierry. Now there was a man …
Chapter 15
WANBOROUGH AND LONDON
OCTOBER 1941
‘To conquer without risk is to triumph without glory.’
Pierre Corneille, Le Cid, 1636
‘You will be allowed home until you are recalled, which will, I have to tell you, be very soon. You will not reveal anything of your training, your whereabouts over the past few weeks, or the nature of the work you will undertake on your return.’
The station Commandant, Major de Wesselow, was emphatic in his instructions, despite the pleasant smile and the apparently relaxed demeanour.
Thierry, Eric and Rosamund sat in a row of chairs in the small briefing room at Wanborough. On the wall behind the Major a vast map of France showed the terrain in which they were soon to be working, and through the window they could see the walled garden and the Surrey landscape which had been their training ground for the past few weeks. Soon it would become nothing more than a distant memory; hopefully, a memory that would last a long time.
‘You would be well advised to avoid the company of the persistently curious and those you think might be a security risk. You will be informed of your mission on your return. I suggest you explain to your nearest and dearest that they are unlikely to hear from you in the near future. It may be some time before you return home; in that respect you will be no different from the thousands of soldiers, sailors and airmen who are already committed in this war. Though your own work will be somewhat different to theirs, it will be every bit as vital.’ He eyed the three recruits in front of him with curiosity. ‘Any questions?’
There were none. His face wore a more serious expression as he added, ‘You will no doubt have heard that many who go from here do not return. I would be misleading you if I contradicted that statement of affairs. But what I will say is that much of your success will be down to the way you handle yourselves, and the way you operate as a team. Be cautious, be careful, and think twice before lowering your guard to anyone. Learning who you can trust will be the difference between life and death. You will have to take risks, but make sure they are calculated risks.’
De Wesselow picked up his hat from the table and made to leave. ‘Good luck,’ he said. And then, looking at Rosamund, ‘To all of you.’
Aunt Venetia was surprisingly understanding, but then Rosamund reminded herself that her aunt had already proved herself adept at keeping secrets.
Her return to Eaton Square did not last long. After just four days, she was recalled. The parting was a difficult one: Aunt Venetia felt she was in some way responsible for her niece’s actions, and Rosamund was aware that she was leaving an aunt of indeterminate years to fend for herself with only Mrs Heffer on hand in case of emergency. But she had underestimated the steel of her Aunt Venetia who, on the surface at least, was impervious to fear.
‘You are not to think of me at all. I shall be fine. I still have a house, thank God, and I have every intention of welcoming you back home when this dreadful war comes to an end. If not before,’ she added hopefully.
‘God willing,’ murmured Rosamund as she gave her aunt a final hug.
‘I shall not come out into the street,’ said her aunt. ‘Far too common to wave goodbye there.’ She took both Rosamund’s hands in hers. ‘I don’t like long goodbyes, my dear, so let’s just say “bon voyage” and leave it at that, shall we?’ She kissed her niece on the cheek, let go of her hands and turned to mount the stairs to the drawing room that would become her sanctuary. Halfway up she turned round to face Rosamund. ‘You will take care, won’t you?’
Rosamund nodded. ‘I will.’
‘Yes, well … goodbye.’
Her aunt continued to climb the stairs, unable and unwilling to turn around and reveal to the niece she had come to love so much the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.
Some agents were dropped off by boat, but we were to be delivered into France by Lysander aircraft. I have never been overly fond of flying, hence my reluctance to become an ‘Atagirl’ delivering planes, but I was not about to let that stand in my way. If I had to be taken to France by water, then so would Thierry and Eric, for we had now been grouped together as a team or ‘cell’
: Thierry as the Organiser, Eric as the Radio Operator, and myself as the Courier, which involved all manner of fetching, carrying, coming and going at the behest of instructions from above. We would operate independently of all other groups. To travel by water would take longer and would present more risks; I would have to get used to flying.
We were given new documents and new identities, as well as a code name for use in radio dispatches and for shorthand reference. After some discussion with de Wesselow, it was agreed that I was to be Christiane de Rossignol, code name ‘Colette’. Clearly I had more than a little input in deciding on my new identity: I wanted, somehow, to feel that Celine would be with me, and since the name was so familiar, I felt it would be easier to assume than one which was totally alien to me.
Night after night I drilled these names into my brain, hoping that before too long they would become as natural to me as my own. We used our new names with one another – often calling them out just to make sure that our colleagues would turn around when addressed by them and ignore the ones they were born with. Thierry Foustier kept his own name but had the code name of ‘Patrice’, and Eric Ridley became Marcel Clemont, code name ‘Hector’.
And so, armed with a new identity, I stepped out into a world that was as frightening as it was unfamiliar, all the while wondering if I would ever see again the world in which I had grown up; the world of rolling green valleys and tide-washed shores, a world of familiar sights and familiar voices, all of which I must now fight to reclaim.
Chapter 16
OCCUPIED FRANCE
OCTOBER 1941
‘Nos amis, les ennemis.’
Our friends, the enemy.
Pierre-Jean de Béranger, ‘L’Opinion de ces Demoiselles’, 1815
The Westland Lysander Mark III from Squadron No. 138 (Special Duties) was not, despite its affectionate nickname of ‘the Lizzie’, a comfortable aeroplane in which to travel. It had originally been built to carry one passenger in addition to the pilot, but its use as a means of transport for the SOE had resulted in its being adapted to take two passengers in its rear cockpit. It could fly only within a week of a full moon – the moonlight essential for navigation – and was painted matt black to assist in camouflaging it from the enemy.
The Scarlet Nightingale Page 14