It was so dark, she could barely see his face, but she sensed he was in great pain and was finding it very hard to swing his leg over the side of the boat to haul himself in. Her heart went out to him but there was nothing she could do to help. Once he was in, and sitting in the bows, she pushed the boat out further, then leapt in.
As she picked up the oars to push the boat further from the beach, she thought she heard something, and her stomach flipped with fear. But she couldn’t see anyone, so she began to row out towards the buoy.
Since leaving New Zealand she had only rowed a boat on London’s Serpentine, and a couple of times on the river at Arundel, and never since the war began. It felt very strange to be in a boat out on the sea again, battling against a current and a fresh wind.
It was further to the buoy than she’d expected, and she pricked up her ears, waiting for a shout that meant they had been spotted. But finally, they were at the buoy and she secured the rowing boat to it.
‘I don’t know your name,’ she whispered to the airman. She could no longer see the shore, so she doubted anyone would spot them either, but sound carried a long way.
‘Alan White,’ he whispered back. ‘You don’t know how good it is to hear an English voice.’
‘For me too,’ she agreed. ‘But we’d better be quiet now,’ she said. ‘We can talk on the boat.’
It seemed for ever before Mariette saw a pinprick of green light, which was the signal that Luc was close by. They had seen lights on other boats, in the distance. Some appeared to be heading towards Quiberon Bay, perhaps making for St Pierre on the other side of the isthmus, while others appeared to be heading towards or away from the Bay of Biscay. She had no way of knowing whether they were French or German boats.
Finally, the boat came close enough to see, aiming straight at them, only sweeping round when it was almost upon them.
‘Will you be able to manage the ladder?’ Mariette asked.
‘I’ll have to,’ Alan replied. ‘I don’t fancy spending all night in this rowing boat.’
Mariette held the ladder steady for him, and Luc leaned down to help him too, but they were both aware of how hard he found the climb. When he got on to the boat, he collapsed from the effort.
Luc and Mariette hoisted him up, supporting him between them, and took him into the cabin where they laid him on the bunk.
‘There’s a bottle of brandy over there.’ Luc pointed to a box by the stove. ‘Give him a tot, he’s like a block of ice.’
The relief as the fishing boat steamed away to meet up with the English boat was enormous, but Mariette knew they were by no means safe yet. They still had to pass the fort where, if any suspicions had been raised, they could be intercepted. Once they were past that danger, they could be bombed by aircraft, hit a mine in the water, be torpedoed, or be fired on by a German ship. But she wasn’t going to think about that.
Alan was clearly relieved too. He lay there, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. ‘I really didn’t think I would get out of France,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I would die from gangrene in that cellar. Or if they got me to the beach, I expected a couple of storm troopers to appear and shoot me.’
‘I had visions of being captured and facing a firing squad,’ Mariette admitted. ‘But don’t let’s talk about that. Tell me where you are from?’
‘A place called Saffron Walden, in Essex,’ he said. ‘Mother is going to be very joyful to hear I’m alive and well. I expect she was told I was missing, presumed dead, after I was shot down. I don’t know whether they pass on the news that you are alive when they are planning to get you out.’
He reminded Mariette a little of Gerald. It was not so much his looks – he was taller, with broader shoulders, and he had good teeth, which Gerald hadn’t had – the similarity was in their ages, in the way they spoke and their confidence, signs she recognized as coming from a loving middle-class home and a first-class education. But he also had that puppy-dog look Gerald used to get, as if he was afraid of displeasing her.
‘You are awfully young and pretty to be doing such a job,’ he said, looking appraisingly at her. ‘And where are you from? I can detect an accent.’
‘New Zealand,’ she said crisply. ‘But how I look is immaterial, in this job or any other.’
‘Oops!’ He put his hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry if I offended you.’
‘You haven’t offended me. It’s just a bit trying to be judged by your age and looks. No one does that with men. But never mind that. How are your wounds? Can I do anything to make them more comfortable? Are you feeling alright?’
‘I am, now we’re away from France,’ he said with a boyish lopsided grin. ‘I can even believe that in a day or two I’ll be drinking a pint of beer at my local, taking my girl, Valerie, out and listening to my mother wittering on about the length of the queue at the butcher’s.’
Mariette hoped that would be the case. After all he had been through, it would be terribly bad luck to be captured now, or for the boat to hit a mine.
But they were lucky. It was a very choppy crossing, and Alan was seasick, but no German boats challenged them, the bombers that came over flew past, and they made the rendezvous with the English boat on time. It was eleven in the morning when they sailed into Lyme Regis, and Alan was taken away to a military hospital.
He tried to thank Mariette, but his eyes filled with tears and his voice quavered.
‘Don’t, Alan,’ she said. ‘I was just one link in a chain of people who helped you. Getting you back here was the result we were all working towards. Now just get well again. Go home and see your mum and Valerie, and keep out of trouble.’
27
Sidmouth, February 1944
Mariette looked out of the back window of the pub at the thick layer of snow covering roofs, walls and gardens, and a shiver of fear ran down her spine. Snow would make the planned rescue even more dangerous.
It wasn’t a question of the cold for, however miserable icy weather made everyone feel, it often worked in their favour. German soldiers were inclined to take shelter when it was very cold rather than patrol as they were supposed to. Snow, however, meant better visibility in the dark, and footprints were a clear signal of paths used and how many people were involved.
Tonight would be her ninth trip to France and, so far, they’d all been successful. Not all the escapees had been wounded airmen: two were French Resistance men, who were being hunted by the Gestapo, and there had been some young Jewish women who Celeste had been hiding.
There was now no doubt in anyone’s mind that the war would eventually be won. The Americans were piling in, and the RAF planes were inflicting grievous damage on German cities. The Russians had finally managed to triumphantly end the siege of Leningrad, and even Rommel in North Africa looked beatable at last. There was the question of the Japanese, of course – some said they were almost beaten, but others said they would fight on to the last man.
People might have different opinions on many aspects of the war, but the one thing that unified everyone was their weariness of the rationing, the blackout and all the shortages of everyday goods. Oddly, they moaned more about these things than about the terrible tragedies played out daily, with husbands, sons and brothers killed in action and civilians dying in air strikes. Thousands were homeless, many more were living with severe bomb damage to their homes, and children were growing up without their fathers. And yet, such things were not mentioned as often as the scandals of wives and girlfriends being led astray by fun-loving GIs.
Just a few days ago, there had been a heated discussion in the pub about unfaithful wives, black marketeers, looters and other wartime examples of wrongdoing. Sybil’s view was that people were losing their moral compass, and all the things they had once thought so important – like honesty, loyalty, pride, good manners and sticking with a marriage even when it became a bit rocky – were being abandoned.
Mariette didn’t agree. In her opinion, people still had the same values, but the challenges an
d deprivations of wartime had just altered their outlook. She knew from her own experience that, right up until she began the training for her secret missions, she would have married Edwin in the blink of an eye, if he’d asked her, and been more than happy to settle down and make a home for them both.
She had been hurt by his reluctance to introduce her to his parents, but it was her training and the danger of the missions which had given her a new perspective. She had learned a great deal about herself, and what she wanted out of her future life. Now she wasn’t so sure Edwin was the right man for her.
She still felt the same physical attraction to him, and she longed to spend a whole night in his arms. But Edwin continued to be the perfect gentleman. He never suggested taking her to a hotel, as almost every other red-blooded man would do if he had nowhere else to go with his girl, and whereas she’d once admired his self-control, she was now inclined to think there was something cold-blooded about a man who didn’t allow his heart to rule his head.
But, on the other hand, it could be that he was terrified he’d be killed and leave her unmarried and pregnant. However, she knew they were drifting apart. They had once had so much to say to one another, there was never enough time for it all. Now there was little to say.
He talked about his airmen friends, what they’d said and done, and she talked about the regulars who came into the pub. But it was dull, and there was no spontaneity or excitement.
Sybil said perhaps he didn’t feel able to talk about his experiences on the bombing raids, and that Mariette ought to understand that – after all, she couldn’t talk about her missions to France. But it wasn’t that. She felt Edwin had withdrawn from her a little because he’d had second thoughts about her. She knew from things he’d said about his family when they first met that they were rather grand, and recently he’d said they were stuffy. Added to that, when she thought about the slightly critical remarks he made sometimes about the way she spoke, dressed and approached people, it all seemed to suggest to her that he knew his parents wouldn’t approve of her working behind a bar, or of her being from New Zealand.
A great many English people seemed to have the idea that New Zealanders and Australians were uneducated oafs, and perhaps his parents subscribed to this view too.
While it was hurtful to think anyone would make judgements about her without ever meeting her, maybe Edwin was right to think she might not be the kind of wife his own mother had been. Mariette had seen ‘county’ women, there were plenty of them around in Devon and Dorset, and she couldn’t see herself fitting in with that sour-faced, bridge-playing, riding-to-hounds set who sent their sons off to boarding schools. Her own daydreams of marriage and home-making were always set in Russell. She wanted to be the kind of wife and mother Belle was – very affectionate, fun-loving and unpredictable. Belle didn’t need a week’s notice to organize a party or picnic, an hour was long enough for her. She was joyful about everything, from bottling fruit to collecting the hens’ eggs in the morning, or making herself a new hat that would raise eyebrows at church on Sunday.
During one of Mariette’s trips to France she had taken a long walk along the coast of Quiberon and saw why the Atlantic side of the isthmus was called the Côte Sauvage. Strong winds scraped the harsh, flat landscape and the few feeble trees were bent over in the wind. It reminded her of certain places back in New Zealand, and she knew that, although it was inhospitable now in midwinter, in summer it would be lovely, with yellow gorse filling the air with its perfumed flowers, long waving grasses, and clumps of pink thrift and other wild flowers softening the stony ground.
She even found herself looking at houses that had been shuttered up since the German occupation and imagined owning one, opening it up, whitewashing the outside and planting geraniums in tubs by the door. She knew if she told Edwin that she’d like to live somewhere like that, with a boat moored on the beach, brown-skinned children running wild, spending the days fishing and gathering wood for the fire, he would think her crazy.
It was, of course, only the vague similarity to New Zealand that made her nostalgic; she didn’t want to live in France, only in the Bay of Islands. She could see the clapboard houses of Russell before her, feel the sun on her skin, hear the voices of all those people she’d grown up amongst. She imagined Russell parties, with everyone from aged grandparents to newborn babies – and every age in between – gathered together for a celebration. She’d watched her parents at these parties, laughing and dancing together, still as much in love as they had been when they married. Yet they had their own separate identities, her father with his building skills, his fishing and sailing, and her mother drawing and painting and making pretty hats.
It was ironic that she had to go to the other side of the world to discover that her own parents lived the life she wanted. But Edwin would never adapt to Russell.
He was too polished and sophisticated, too fixed in his outlook. He was, even if he claimed otherwise, a city man. He might like sailing, swimming and fishing, but only on a holiday, not all year round. She couldn’t see him tolerating the lack of electricity for long, or the bad roads. And what would he do for work in New Zealand? Maybe he could pick up where he’d left off in accountancy, move on to law, or become a pilot for one of the new airlines he seemed to think would start up after the war? But that would mean they’d have to live in Christchurch, Wellington or Auckland.
But, over and above all the niggling anxieties she had, she knew Edwin would be horrified when he found out she wasn’t a virgin. At the start of their relationship she had always imagined a night of passion with him would be all that was necessary to wipe out the past – the way it had been with Morgan – but Edwin would want assurances that it was her first time. He was just made that way.
Then there were her parents, and Mog. It would soon become obvious to anyone that all three of them had enjoyed a colourful past. Some men might like that, but she didn’t think Edwin would. He was far too conventional. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending her life with someone from whom she had to hide things, for fear of his disapproval.
Since getting to know Celeste better, Mariette had confided in her about what Jean-Philippe had said about her mother. Celeste had smiled knowingly and said that, when Mariette got home, she was to ask Belle about her experiences.
‘Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that all women who are, or have been, whores are bad women,’ she said. ‘My experience is the exact opposite. I’ve seen great kindness and self-sacrifice, generosity of spirit, and courage too. Any woman who could produce a daughter like you would have to be a good woman through and through. So listen to her story, when the time is right for her to tell it to you, and be proud of her.’
Mariette knew that she had seen enough of life in the raw since the war began to accept anything her parents might have done in the past. But Edwin certainly wouldn’t be able to. He’d try to, of course – he was, after all, a tolerant and good man – but as Mog had been very fond of saying, ‘You can’t make the blind see, or the deaf hear. However much you want to.’
Turning away from the window, Mariette pulled on a pair of flannel pyjama trousers, tucked the legs into her socks, then put thick wool trousers over the top. On her top half she wore a wool vest, a flannel shirt and two jumpers. She had to make sure she kept warm while at sea, otherwise it was utter misery.
Today, just like every time she went on one of these missions, she hoped it would be the last. The fear never left her. She’d had one close shave, when German soldiers came running down the beach just as she was rowing away. That time, she’d had the Jewish women in the boat with her, and the Germans opened fire. Fortunately, the boat was just out of range and the bullets hit the water harmlessly. But the terror hadn’t stopped there. They’d fully expected the soldiers to call for assistance and a fast boat to be launched from the harbour to cut them off. For whatever reason, that didn’t happen – Luc was of the opinion that the soldiers were supposed to have been somewhere e
lse, and raising an alarm would mean questions would be asked – but although she was thankful for their luck that night, Mariette knew it was unlikely to be repeated.
Edwin seemed to think the Allies would invade France in early summer. She fervently hoped he was right. From Celeste and the French fishermen she’d heard how much their people were suffering under occupation. The farmers had seen their livestock and crops taken, and sometimes farmhouses were ransacked and then burned to the ground. Children went hungry, and old people were dying because they had too little food and not enough wood for the fire to keep warm.
It was Luc who told her Celeste used the profits she made from her café and brothel to help local people. ‘Some people call her a collaborator because she entertains the Germans, but every sou she takes from them is distributed around our people, and she takes such a big risk supporting the Resistance. There are folk in town capable of informing on anyone just for a loaf of bread or a few eggs, so it’s only a matter of time before one of them points the finger at her.’
Mariette knew now that all those terrible rumours of camps where Jews were gassed were true and not anti-Nazi propaganda. She also knew that all those working for the Resistance were shot or sent to labour camps when they were caught. A labour camp might sound better than being shot, but by all accounts it was worse because it was a slow, painful death from starvation and disease. This made Celeste’s dogged determination to outwit the Gestapo even more admirable.
‘If you don’t want to miss the train, you’d better hurry,’ Sybil shouted up the stairs, bringing Mariette abruptly out of her reverie.
She moved away from the window and put the last few things in her bag. She didn’t want to go, but she had to, people were depending on her. Sybil never tried to pry into what she did any more. She certainly knew it was dangerous, though, because each time Mariette left, the goodbye hug was longer, and the relief on her face when she returned was greater.
Survivor Page 37