‘You can’t send me back to France?’
‘Your work in France is done,’ Max said. ‘SOE did what it was set up to do. Operatives who are still there will continue to support the Resistance and military and coordinate sabotage if necessary, but the army and air force will finish the job. Don’t worry, my dear. There is still work to be done here and we need you to play your part.’
He stood, signalling the interview was ended. He leaned over the table and shook her hand.
‘Welcome home, Sylvia.’
She knew then that she was back in England for good.
London, England
1945
‘What time do you call this?’ Mrs Underwood’s face was stern.
Sylvie’s friend Maisie squinted at her watch but gave up trying to read the time and beamed at their landlady. ‘Late?’ she slurred.
Their landlady folded her arms and glared sourly at the three girls. ‘Very late. My rules clearly say the front door is bolted at ten sharp and yet here you are beating it down at half past one in the morning!’
Sylvie adopted an expression of contrition.
‘We’re very sorry, Mrs Underwood. But today of all days, you must forgive us. It’s VE Day. The war is officially over!’
She had started trying to be grave but couldn’t stop from smiling as she said the words.
No more war.
‘We would have been back earlier, but the centre of London was so crowded. We had to wait ages until we could get seats on a bus,’ explained Susan, the third member of the guilty trio.
For a moment, the girls forgot Mrs Underwood’s disapproval as shared memories of the celebration filled them with joy. Strangers hugged and passed around bottles of beer. The bus – when it did arrive – had echoed with singing.
The day Britain had been waiting for had arrived. Papers had been signed ordering the cessation of German operations and the war was officially ended, and no one was going to pass up the chance to celebrate, least of all Sylvie and her two coworkers in the Baker Street office.
No one except Mrs Underwood, it seemed.
‘I will make an exception today because of the circumstances, however, I will not tolerate drunken behaviour.’ She glanced at Susan, noticing how her Elizabeth Arden Victory Red lipstick was smeared across the side of her jaw. ‘And I most certainly will not tolerate loose behaviour.’
The three girls did their best to keep straight faces as they were lectured, and Mrs Underwood allowed them to pass inside, before pointedly bolting the door and returning to her bedroom. Sylvie and the other girls collapsed on the comfy chairs in the small parlour that the boarders were permitted to use the evening between six and ten. They kicked off their shoes with sighs of relief. Three of Sylvie’s toes were blistered and her big toenail was bruised from being trodden on as she had been hustled to and fro in the great crush of bodies down Pall Mall.
‘I told you we should have gone home with those men from South Norwood instead of trying to sneak back in,’ Susan said.
‘I can’t believe Mrs U didn’t go and join in the party,’ Maisie said. ‘I wonder what it would take for her to enjoy herself.’
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvie said. Her eyes drifted to the framed photographs on the mantelpiece. They included one of a slightly younger Mrs Underwood standing beside a man in the uniform of the Home Guard. ‘It’s a celebration, but some people don’t have as much to celebrate as we do.’
She felt her eyes pricking. The night had been the first time since returning from France that she had felt truly free and happy, but now it was tinged with a sense of melancholy. Were people celebrating in Nantes? How many of her friends were alive to join in? What of the nameless men she had nursed as the field hospitals followed the fighting across France? Not knowing played on her mind.
Maisie nodded understandingly. ‘My sister’s fiancé died at Caen and she was close to becoming an old maid, but in spring she met a nice coalman from Brockley Park, and now she’s expecting a baby. If you lost someone you loved, they wouldn’t want you to mourn forever, would they?’
‘No. I don’t think he would,’ Sylvie murmured.
‘He?’ Susan sat forward. ‘He who? You never talk much about what you did, Sylvia.’
‘Just a man I knew for a while,’ Sylvie said. ‘While I was working with FANY. You know what it was like. You meet someone, hit it off, then circumstances get in the way and you lose touch.’
The girls nodded sagely. Susan had been a land girl and driven tractors in Kent before coming up to London to resume her career as a teacher. Maisie had worked in Woolworths in Lewisham. Both of them had plenty of stories to tell of the men they had met. Sylvie shared stories about the nursing she’d done with FANY after D-Day and managed to avoid telling anyone what she had done in the months before then.
But that was the past. She’d been back in England for almost a year and still didn’t feel settled. It was time to put the past behind her, one way or another.
The next morning, during her tea break, Sylvie slipped out of the typing-pool room and across the road to visit Uncle Max.
‘Sylvia, my dear, how wonderful to see you,’ Max said. ‘How is your head? Were you out on the town last night?’
‘Wasn’t everyone?’ Sylvie laughed.
‘I’m glad you popped over. I wondered if you had given any thought to what you plan to do next? Your supervisor, Mr Reynolds, thinks you have potential to become a personal secretary in the Civil Service.’
‘How exciting.’ Sylvie gave a brittle smile. SOE had no purpose now, and there was no telling how long the Baker Street offices would be in operation. She would be out of a job before long. She wasn’t worried. She had excellent references. Dennis had written them and his obvious guilt at the way their affair had ended painted Sylvie in a glorious light. But Uncle Max’s suggestion didn’t fill Sylvie with as much enthusiasm as it did Mr Reynolds.
‘I don’t know yet. There are a few things I’d like to put to rest. In fact, that’s the reason I came to see you. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened after I left.’
Uncle Max gave her a penetrating look. ‘I gather from your cell leader’s report that there are certain aspects of your time there you neglected to share with us.’
‘Personal aspects,’ Sylvie replied, feeling her cheeks redden.
‘Ones that might have had a bearing on your choice of actions,’ Uncle Max said. ‘Ah well, it’s all done with now.’
‘Can you put me in touch with Marcel? I would love to see him again,’ Sylvie asked. ‘I don’t know if it is the done thing…’
Uncle Max smiled. ‘There’s no reason why not. Oddly enough, he’s in town at the moment. If you give me your address, I’ll pass it on to his hotel. He’s only in London for a few days with his wife, but I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.’
‘Yes, please!’ Sylvie exclaimed. She tried to hide her excitement but failed. Marcel was in London. That was more than she had hoped for. Uncle Max stood, indicating the visit was at an end.
‘Take care, my dear. We must lunch together soon. Maud has invited me to Scarborough for a week in July. It would be nice if you could be there as well.’
Sylvie left, having made promises to try to visit that were vague enough that if she broke them, it would not matter. She found it hard to settle back to work, watching the clock on the wall edge slowly towards five, and rushed home. She spent the evening in her room listening out for the telephone in the entrance hall in case Marcel called. The telephone didn’t ring, but at half past seven Maise knocked on Sylvie’s bedroom door.
‘Sylvia, you’ve got a visitor. A gentleman by the name of Danby.’
Sylvie closed her book and went downstairs to the front parlour. She gave a cry of pleasure. The name had not been familiar, but the man standing by the unlit fire most definitely was.
‘Marcel!’
‘Actually, it’s Walter Danby,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again, Sylvie.’
She was so used to being addressed as Sylvia again that the use of her former name took her by surprise. She rushed across the room and hugged him.
‘I can’t imagine you as a Walter! I’m so pleased you’re safe. I tried to find out anything I could about the liberation of Nantes in the newspapers but there was only a line or two.’
She’d scoured every page of every paper, hoping for something to leap out and put her mind at ease.
‘The surrender was unconditional. The Germans blew up the bridges before they left, and planted mines, but barely a shot was fired,’ Marcel said. ‘You’d find the city much as you left it.’
Thinking of Nantes as she left it made Sylvie’s throat tighten. She would cry if she didn’t control herself.
‘What happened about Dieter after I left? I need to know.’
She gestured to the chairs and they sat opposite each other.
‘Everything went according to plan. Felix marched down to Baumann’s Soldatenheim the following morning and demanded to speak to him, accusing him of abducting you. He caused quite a scene in the lobby before he was thrown out. When Baumann’s absence was noticed, the Abwehr raided Mirabelle and your apartment looking for you both. They questioned the staff and your landlady, but obviously no one knew anything.’ Marcel’s face grew grave. ‘When you were not to be found anywhere, they arrested Felix on suspicion of murdering you both in a fit of passion. Apparently Baumann had confided in a friend that he viewed Felix as a rival.’
Nikki or one of the Valters, presumably. Sylvie would put her money on Nikki as a way of taking revenge on Felix for embarrassing him in the club when Nikki had insulted Sylvie.
‘Is he…?’
She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She could only imagine what being arrested had involved. While she was hiding in the crypt in Normandy Felix had been undergoing torture. She couldn’t bear it. Tears brimmed, hot and smarting. Marcel squeezed her hand.
‘He’s alive. He was imprisoned for a fortnight. He wasn’t treated well, but he never broke. There was no evidence to connect him to your disappearance, and they released him. Perhaps to observe him and see if he led them to you. Perhaps because after D-Day, the Germans had more important things to occupy them than look for a missing civil servant and a dancer. Perhaps because Baumann was not important enough to waste resources on. In any case, the truth is still a secret.’
Sylvie wiped her eyes. Felix was alive. The worst she had feared had not come to pass.
‘Poor Dieter,’ she murmured. ‘To be remembered for eloping with a dancer.’
Her heart broke at the thought of his parents who had lost both their sons and the shame that the circumstances of Dieter’s disappearance would bring them. It didn’t seem fair. ‘I wonder if we could ever have turned him if I’d had more time, or given him more attention. There was something there – doubt at what he was seeing or hearing. Towards the end, I think he was growing close to questioning everything.’
‘I had to shoot him, you understand,’ Marcel said, clearly reading her thoughts.
‘I know. We could not have relied on him keeping our secret. Sacrifices must be made, however unpleasant they are. There were too many others at stake. What of Antoine and Mirabelle?’
‘Mirabelle survived without too much damage. Antoine was determined to stay open come what may, especially when the city was overrun with GIs. There were accusations of collaboration as he had welcomed German clientele, but he brazened it out and defended the girls. The last thing I heard, he is intending to employ a whole band to accompany Felix.’
‘Felix still works there?’
‘He returned to Mirabelle once he was released. He still plays there, though he’s changed. I don’t think I saw him smile after the night you left, even when the city was liberated.’
He picked up his hat and stood. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Sylvie. My wife is waiting at our hotel. You’d remember her – though, of course, you knew her as Madame Barbe.’
‘Louise?’ Now it was Sylvie’s turn to smile.
‘I couldn’t bear to leave her. I can’t stay in France – I have an invalid mother and a family business that needs rescuing. Fortunately, Louise agreed to come to England with me. We’re in London briefly before we head north to Darlington.’
Sylvie took his hands. She hadn’t noticed the wide gold band when she had come in.
‘I’m very pleased for you both. I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘I believe we will be, Sylvie. I hope I can say the same for you.’
Sylvie bade Marcel farewell, wishing him and Mrs Danby the best of luck. Mrs Underwood was waiting in the hallway.
‘Miss Crichton, you know I disapprove of men on my premises, especially at this time of night. Who was that?’
‘Mr Danby was a friend from wartime.’ Sylvie smiled sweetly. ‘I met him when I was working as a dancer in a nightclub.’
Mrs Underwood sniffed and went back into her own room. Sylvie watched her go with a weary heart. She disapproved of visitors. She disapproved of gentlemen. She seemed to disapprove of Sylvie’s very presence in her house, even though Sylvie was paying a considerable part of her wages for the bedroom in the three-storey Victorian villa on Gipsy Hill. It was probably time to look elsewhere for digs.
Maisie stuck her head out of her room as Sylvie went upstairs. ‘Tell me about him! He’s a dream.’
‘He’s a friend from the war,’ Sylvie said. ‘Only a friend, mind. I know his wife too.’
Maisie grinned. ‘In that case, you can come dancing with me on Saturday night. Robert has a friend he’s dying for you to meet.’
‘But do I want to meet him?’ Sylvie asked.
Dancing appealed. Another in a series of Maisie’s boyfriend’s friends looking for a night of fun did not. She went into her room and lay on the bed. She looked around the room and was disheartened by what she saw.
Plain, sensible skirts and blouses hung ready for work the next morning. A book on learning shorthand lay open on the dressing table beside the silver compact from Major Buckmaster. The only bright touches in the room were the red silk scarf Sylvie had been wearing the night she had left Nantes, which she had draped over the mirror, and the poster for Les Filles Luciole from her childhood, which she had tacked to the chimneybreast. She gazed thoughtfully at the framed photograph of Angelique and Arthur, which stood on the fireplace beside the poster. Angelique had shown her daughter one life. Arthur had given her another. Both parents had combined to make her the woman she was now, but the future was hers to determine. Her parents gazed at each other with no consideration to the world around them beyond one another.
Only one person had ever looked at Sylvie with such an expression. Only one person had told her she mattered to him as much as he did to her. Angelique had spent years pining for the man she had loved but could not have. The man Sylvie wanted was alive, and she knew where he was. She was not going to live the same life as her mother.
The suitcase she had taken from Dennis’s flat and reclaimed from storage on her return to England stood in the corner of the room. In the nine months since she had lived here, she hadn’t even bothered to tidy it away and had given up any intention of seeking out Dennis to return it. She eyed it contemplatively, and her heart stirred, blood bubbling with anticipation.
She had spent her life moving from place to place and never belonging. From boarding houses in France with The Firefly Girls to boarding school in England. From Madame Giraud’s place to Mrs Underwood’s house.
She was not afraid of moving on.
The following lunchtime, she visited Thomas Cook’s travel agency and made arrangements to travel to Nantes.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sylvie arrived on the late-afternoon train and walked from the station. She knew the route well, but it was like walking through a new city. There were no checkpoints and the sight of the Tricolore where last there had hung swastikas made Sylvie’s heart swell. It had been the s
ame in every town on the long journey down through France. It was a Friday afternoon in August. Men and women sat outside cafés in the squares and on pavements, a colourful array of summer dresses and lightweight shirts around tables that had once been filled with Nazi uniforms. Like shoots breaking through frozen soil after a hard winter, France was coming back to life.
Not all the businesses had reopened though, giving Sylvie pause for reflection. The windows and walls that had once been daubed with yellow stars and graffiti had been scrubbed clean, but the buildings remained closed; a testament to the horrific, inhuman practices of the all too recent past that had come to light since the war had ended. People numbering tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, had vanished into the camps, never to be seen again. The final number might be even greater.
Sylvie had heard from Uncle Max that Miss Atkins was trying to discover the whereabouts of some of the SOE agents that were missing, presumed dead, but her task was a daunting one. Marie-Elaine had never been found. Sylvie was acutely aware that she was, as Monsieur Tombée had hoped, one of the fortunate ones.
Would Dieter have known what had been done to the Jews of France and Germany? She told herself he had shown enough humanity and he would have protested, but deep down she doubted it. He, like so many others, would have turned their face and ignored what was happening under their noses. Maybe he had not deserved his eulogy after all, or maybe it was only that little piece of humanity towards the enemy that gave life meaning.
A girl ran past Sylvie, chasing a dog, breaking through her melancholy reverie. Claire Barbe had chosen not to follow her mother and new stepfather to England but to stay with her grandmother. Sylvie had promised Walter and Louise to pay her a visit while in Nantes. She’d do that tomorrow, but today her mind was fixed elsewhere.
She had booked a room in a newly reopened hotel not far from the Jardin du Plantes. It struck her as she made her way across the city that she had left lots of her belongings at Madame Giraud’s house. They might still be there if they hadn’t all been destroyed in the search for her. She wondered if the Gestapo had discovered the tin outside the skylight and hoped not. It would be one small, insignificant victory if they hadn’t. She checked into the hotel and freshened up before making her way to Mirabelle, planning to arrive soon after it opened.
The Secret Agent Page 31