The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘I’d be happy to repeat the experience any time you would like.’

  Felix grinned, and for a moment Sylvie found herself liking him. She walked out into the sunshine and away from the café. The meeting had gone better than she had expected. A mild flirtation and the crossing of linguistic swords with Felix was merely a thin scraping of icing on top of a very small cake. Felix might be a little full of his own importance, but she believed he was genuinely an ally, and she felt more optimistic than she had at any time since arriving in Nantes.

  Now she had only one other task to occupy her: successfully infiltrate the dance troupe.

  Chapter Ten

  Poitiers

  1928

  ‘Pass me my hairbrush, chérie.’

  Angelique waved her hand in the direction of the dressing table. Sylvie rummaged among the cigarette boxes, vials of perfume and open pots of face paint and took the brush to her mother.

  ‘Can I brush it, please, Maman?’ she begged.

  ‘Not tonight, chérie. I’m running too far behind time, and the curtain will rise soon. In the morning, I promise. And tomorrow night.’

  Angelique popped a kiss on Sylvie’s forehead and patted her daughter’s cheek.

  ‘You can do my hair too, ma poupette,’ called Soraya, one of the other dancers, kindly, taking Angelique’s brush and running it through her sleek bob. ‘We all appreciate your help.’

  Sylvie bit her lip. She wasn’t a doll, though the twelve-strong troupe that Angelique danced in treated her as one. She was their mascot or pet. To have so many grown women paying her attention was nice, but she wasn’t one of them. Yet.

  She settled on the stool beside Angelique and fingered a strand of the long fringe that fell from the thigh-length skirt of Angelique’s costume. She watched in admiration as Angelique separated her black tresses into plump rolls and secured them in place with feathered combs, longing for the day when she could pin and wrap her own hair in the same manner. She would be ten soon – that must nearly be old enough.

  She sighed. One day, the feathers and spangles would be hers. The powders and lipsticks and heels. It was what she wanted most of all. Les Filles Luciole: The Firefly Girls, named for the final number of the show where they wore leotards with radium-paint covered beads that glowed under the lights as they danced. It was the most magical thing in the world.

  She trailed her fingers over the tassels on the short cloak that hung around the back of Angelique’s chair and pictured of the day she could join them.

  ‘How is your dancing, chou-fleur?’ A voice called from the other end of the dressing room. Rosetta was one of Sylvie’s particular favourites, a beautiful woman with the glossiest, tightest curls of black hair Sylvie had ever seen. Sylvie would never even dare attempt to fix Rosetta’s hair which required a hot comb to straighten it.

  Sylvie stood once more and began to dance one of the routines with high kicks and tapping heels. She received a loud round of applause and began to dance the Charleston.

  ‘Keep rehearsing, poupette and you’ll be joining us soon. I’ll teach you the Black Bottom tomorrow night,’ Rosetta promised.

  There was a knock on the door. Sylvie rushed to answer it. One of the stagehands stood there, almost hidden behind a huge bouquet of roses and carnations.

  ‘A delivery for Mademoiselle Duchene. Flowers!’

  Sylvie took the heavy armful and carried the bouquet to her mother. The other women gathered round, cooing and chattering.

  ‘Who are they from this time?’

  ‘Another admirer, you little nénette!’

  Angelique laughed and read the card. ‘Monsieur Clement. I’m dining with him tonight.’

  ‘What about Oncle Henri?’ Sylvie asked. ‘Won’t he mind?’

  Angelique shrugged. ‘He might, but as we’re moving on to another town at the end of the week, I won’t have to put up with him sulking.’

  Sylvie frowned. ‘Won’t you miss Oncle Henri?’

  Angelique leaned forward and patted Sylvie’s cheek. ‘Ma petite, men are nice to have around, but they will leave you. Don’t allow yourself to become too attached to one or they will break your heart.’

  ‘What your mother means is use them before they use you,’ commented the woman on the next stool. She twisted her ginger curls and wrinkled her nose until the freckles stood out against her pale skin. ‘Isn’t that right, Angelique?’

  ‘Completely. And I cannot suffer a man who sulks!’

  ‘Not even if he has the tortured soul of an artist?’

  ‘Perhaps then!’

  The women all laughed. Sylvie didn’t join in. She had liked Oncle Henri, who brought her candied ginger when he visited Angelique and showed her the watercolour sketches he made of the river. He was not her real uncle, of course. Mother had no brothers or sisters. Before him there had been Oncle Albert, Oncle Vincent, Oncle Martin…

  Lots of uncles. Whenever The Firefly Girls came to a new town, it didn’t take Angelique long to find a handsome or rich man to take her dancing and dining. It made Angelique happy and meant her eyes didn’t contain the sadness that tore Sylvie’s heart whenever she saw it.

  A bell rang out, calling the women to the stage. There was a sudden flurry of women adding final touches to their makeup or outfits, then they rushed out, leaving Angelique alone with Sylvie.

  ‘Go to sleep, chérie,’ she said, cocking her head to the small camp bed pushed into the far corner of the dressing room where Sylvie’s storybook and cloth rabbit were waiting. Sylvie had spent most nights she could remember falling asleep in different dressing rooms while the troupe performed, then being woken to return to lodgings late at night. She found it harder to fall asleep in silence than to the background murmur of voices and strains of different music.

  ‘I’ll wake you when I come back from dinner. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Maman.’ She gazed up at her mother. She couldn’t give her a hug without risking damage to the flimsy wisps of chiffon and gauze that made up her costume, so she settled for touching her fingers lightly to Angelique’s soft roll of hair. Sylvie’s hair was lighter than her mother’s, a nice brown, but without the gleam that came with blackness. She must have her father’s colouring.

  ‘Did you love my papa?’ she asked.

  ‘What a strange question,’ Angelique said with a gentle laugh. Her eyes grew misty and the amusement fell from her face. ‘Yes. I did. But he couldn’t stay with me.’

  She dropped a kiss on Sylvie’s forehead. She hurried away but turned back at the door.

  ‘Remember, ma chérie, keep your heart safe when you’re old enough to give it away, but don’t be too quick to do so.’

  Nantes, France

  1944

  ‘Have you seen my stocking? I can’t find it anywhere.’

  It took Sylvie a moment to realise the dark-haired woman standing in front of her dressed in an open negligee and lingerie was actually talking to Sylvie.

  The last time she had been surrounded by members of her own sex had been when she was training for her role in SOE. Before that it had been at boarding school, but the camaraderie she had expected to find from her experiences of living with The Firefly Girls as a child were nowhere to be seen. She’d been too sophisticated and bohemian. Too French. She had found little in common with the well-read and academic English girls with their sensible plaits and enthusiasm for sport. She kept herself to herself, which resulted in a reputation for being stand-offish.

  Now, much to her delight, after a few nights of working at the club, she found herself welcomed into a world of female confidences and gossip. The small dressing room that was shared between the five women was a hive of activity and chaos. It was smoky and loud, littered with the clothes, makeup and jewellery of too many women crammed into a small space in front of two mirrors. Sylvie had sat and watched in awe at first, putting on her powder and cream, slightly nervous of the glamorous women she shared the stage with. It occurred to her that this world
would be as hard to infiltrate as the covert society she had been thrown into. If the women of Angelique’s troupe could see her now! If only her mother had lived to see her daughter follow in her high-kicking footsteps. Sylvie gazed round the room. All white faces. Where were Rosetta and Soraya, she wondered? Still dancing in France, or had they fled to England where it was still safe to have dark skin?

  ‘Sorry, Emily. I don’t think I’ve seen your stocking,’ Sylvie replied, twisting round on the stool to look beneath her.

  ‘Never mind, there it is.’ Emily lunged beside Sylvie and picked up the wisp of nylon from beneath the mirror. How it had got there was anyone’s guess. Emily perched on the stool beside Sylvie and began to carefully roll the stocking up her leg.

  ‘How are you enjoying working here?’ Emily asked. ‘You were in Rouen before, weren’t you? Was it a big troupe?’

  Sylvie felt a rush of trepidation. This was the first time she had been really asked anything about her past and the first test of whether her cover story would hold. She shook her head. ‘Angoulême, most recently. Vannes for a little while before that. I travelled about the north before it became too awkward to move around. I’ve worked in all size troupes, but this is the smallest.’

  Deflect the attention from yourself. Get your questioner talking about themselves.

  She remembered the advice from training. ‘How long have you been working here?’ she asked Emily.

  ‘About half a year,’ Emily replied airily. ‘But I’ve known about the club for years. I trained as a ballerina but, of course, the Germans don’t like our ballet, so it isn’t popular now. This is the next best thing, but it took me a long time to persuade Papa and Maman that dancing was not akin to prostitution.’

  ‘My mother was a dancer, so she always understood when I said I wanted to dance too, but my father would have said the same as your parents,’ Sylvie said. She faced Emily. ‘He would have a fit if he knew what I was doing now.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Emily asked, leaning forward with wide eyes and obviously hoping for gossip.

  Sylvie cursed herself inwardly. One minute of conversation and she was already spilling secrets. Nothing harmful in this one though. ‘He died last year. His heart gave out.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been hard on your mother?’ Emily asked. She really was relentless. How fortunate Sylvie had rehearsed her past until she would not make any mistakes.

  ‘She died when I was a child. But before then I travelled with her around the theatres with the troupe she was in. The Firefly Girls. Those were fun days. We almost went to Paris once.’

  She smiled at the memory, then applied her lipstick in a perfect pout. In the reflection, she noticed the door open. Felix stuck his head through. Emily squealed his name aloud and covered her breasts with her hands. It caused more of a fuss than if she had quietly wrapped her negligee around her because all the attention in the room turned to her, Felix’s included. Feeling ungracious, Sylvie wondered if that had been her intention, but he looked away quickly. He caught Sylvie’s gaze in the mirror, and as he did he rolled his eyes. Clearly, he shared Sylvie’s thoughts. It felt odd to find herself in this silent agreement, and she shifted uncomfortably. Two days had passed since their meeting in the café, and he had said nothing more to her than civilities as they passed in the corridor or over the evening meal.

  ‘What do you want, Felix?’ Céline asked, making her voice low and husky. She sauntered over and placed one hand on her hip and the other on the doorframe, barring his way but ensuring the only woman he was looking at was her. ‘I’m out of cigarettes if you’ve come begging. Or were you just trying to get a look at us in our slips?’

  ‘I have my own cigarettes and I see enough of you all when you are onstage,’ Felix said, folding his arms. In the mirror, Sylvie watched Emily readjust her clothing with a covert glare towards the doorway. Interesting. There was a touch of jealousy there. Had the pianist flirted with Emily before moving on to Céline, or had Emily hoped he would make a move and been disappointed? Whatever the reason, she didn’t seem to like Céline flirting.

  ‘I came to tell you Monsieur Julien says it’s should be busy tonight, so bring your best smiles.’

  Felix withdrew his head. Céline shut the door behind him and faced the other women.

  ‘Arrogant andouille!’ she muttered in an undertone. She brightened and exclaimed out loud. ‘Men! I don’t know why we bother!’

  Sylvie joined in the murmurs of agreement and went back to making up her face. When she had been training for SOE in England, she had worn the barest touch of powder and lipstick; sometimes not even that if the lessons were in combat. Now, applying stage makeup took concentration to produce the desired effect.

  ‘Save us from sullen men,’ Adele remarked with a laugh, smoothing rouge over her porcelain cheekbones.

  ‘Unless they have the soul of a poet,’ Sylvie added, remembering the old joke from years ago. She wondered where the rest of the Fireflies were and if any of them were still dancing. One of the things that had saddened her most about being whisked away to England had been losing the warmth and care of those women. She’d scoured the papers for any mention of them but had found nothing.

  ‘He’s always sullen,’ Emily whispered. She seemed to have been speaking more to herself than Sylvie, because as Sylvie turned her head towards her, Emily drew her head down. It suggested the relationship between the two was longer standing than she first thought.

  ‘He does seem moody, when he isn’t flirting with customers or Céline,’ she remarked to Emily who had sunk onto the stool.

  Emily bit her lip. Poor girl, she looked so wistful, as if she was about to cry. Sylvie’s heart went out to her, and she wished she could snatch back the reference to Céline. Being in love with someone who was not interested was a horrid feeling.

  ‘This terrible occupation has changed all of us. He’s bitter about life,’ Emily explained, flicking out her hem expressively. ‘He hates the Germans for what they have done and thinks their coming here to drink and dance is an insult. I’ve told him to keep hope, but he doesn’t believe the Allied forces will ever free us. He has no time for the Resistance either. The incident of the Fifty Hostages saw to that.’

  ‘The Fifty Hostages?’ Sylvie wrinkled her nose, sensing something she should have known about. She felt a pang of remorse at pushing Emily to talk about Felix when it was clearly a sensitive subject but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to find out as much as she could about the man who so far was her only hope of contact with Marcel’s network.

  ‘It happened a few years ago. That’s why there is no Resistance to speak of here,’ Emily explained. ‘When everyone saw what had happened, people gave up. Now most of us try to live day to day and hope for the day it is over, but Felix’s memory is long, and he won’t forget.’

  She wiped her eye and Sylvie looked away discreetly. The girl was far too sweet to be concerned about someone who had barely noticed her. Anyone could see they would be a bad match.

  ‘Let Felix stew in his own bouillon,’ she said firmly.

  Emily gave her a washed-out smile. ‘Can I borrow your lipstick, please, Sylvie? Mine has run out, and I don’t know when I’ll get another.’

  Sylvie passed over the tube, pondering Emily’s words. She was none the wiser as to what had happened to the hostages to make Felix so surly, but Emily was wrong about there being no Resistance. Unless Felix was lying after all and trying to trap Sylvie. But what would be the point of that? She had said enough to incriminate her if he was a double agent working for the Gestapo. It was more likely Emily didn’t know what went on outside the walls of the club. That was how it should be, of course. The more people knew, the greater the risk to everyone fighting for freedom.

  Sylvie jabbed her hairpins in determinedly. Sitting and gossiping or dancing was all very well, but she was not doing the job she had come here to do, and until she was, she would never be satisfied.

  ‘Is
this seat free?’

  Sylvie looked along the row of empty stools. Despite Monsieur Julien’s early hopes, it had been a relatively slow night. Felix stood beside her.

  ‘They all are.’

  He sat beside her at the bar and ordered a beer and another glass of wine for Sylvie from the bartender, who had been wiping glasses and chatting to Sylvie. When it arrived, Felix cocked his head at Sylvie then winked at the bartender. ‘Leave us in peace, Alphonse.’

  Alphonse took his cloth and moved to the other end of the bar, grinning. It was obvious he was giving them some privacy for whatever Felix was planning.

  ‘Santé!’ Felix said, raising his beer. ‘Will you drink with me yet or are you still angry because of the other night?’

  Sylvie picked up her glass and sipped the wine. ‘I’m thirsty.’

  She looked at him over the rim. ‘Have you got any news for me or is this a social conversation?’

  ‘Can’t it be both?’ Felix murmured. When Sylvie raised her brows, he put his glass down. ‘I have a task for you.’

  The hairs on the back of Sylvie’s neck stood on end. ‘What sort of task?’

  ‘An item has been delivered that I need. You will collect it from an address and return it here to me.’

  Sylvie lowered her voice and leaned towards Felix. ‘Should we be talking about this here?’

  ‘No one is listening, and anyone watching will assume we are getting to know each other better.’

  ‘Or that you are trying to get to know me better,’ Sylvie pointed out. ‘I don’t think I’m giving them the impression that your company is welcome.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Felix looked unimpressed by her goading. The moodiness made a brief reappearance. ‘Either way, I wouldn’t risk talking unless I thought it was safe. At this point, I think it is.’

  Sylvie twisted the stem of her glass and slid her eyes in either direction. They were alone at the long bar. Céline and Adele were chatting to a group of Frenchmen sitting at a table by the door and pointedly ignoring the uniformed Germans beside them. Emily and Estelle had gone backstage as soon as the number had ended. A handful of couples were on the dancefloor, dancing to the slow number that crooned from the gramophone.