by Eliza Graham
‘Keep your attention on the mission, Anna,’ Beattie said. ‘The bigger picture. We can’t afford sentimentality about Micki and her brother. She’s a tool we can use. What do you think would become of her if she stayed here? I doubt she’d have a hope of getting on a ship.’
As though in mockery of Micki’s hopes the guitarist in the corner started to play. He plucked at the strings with his thumb and index fingernail, singing one of those mournful Portuguese pieces I couldn’t understand, but which made me think of love, loss and betrayal. Beattie had promised us a celebration dinner, but melancholy swept over me.
‘It’s called fado, this music,’ Beattie said, taking another sip of his wine. ‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’
I nodded.
Sentiments like those evoked by the music were what we played on, too. We touched people’s emotions: those whom we persuaded to work with us and those we targeted. Often these emotions were unpleasant ones because they were the most powerful, Beattie said. We made people feel afraid or contemptuous or triumphant at believing they’d found out something the authorities didn’t wish them to know.
We ate the remainder of our meal in silence. I tried to remind myself to savour each bite – I wouldn’t be dining like this in England in the foreseeable future – but I longed for the solitude of my hotel room.
As we walked through the hotel reception the concierge called out to me, ‘Senhorita, something has arrived here for you.’ He handed over a flat parcel.
‘Give that to me, Hall,’ Beattie said quietly. ‘Carefully. I’ll open it on the balcony of my room.’ I was about to question him when I caught a glimpse of the concern on his face. ‘We’ll take the stairs, not the lift.’
But when he stood on his balcony and examined the handwriting on the address more closely, his face relaxed. ‘It’s from Finckler.’ He handed it back to me.
‘You thought it might be a bomb? From the Germans?’
‘Stranger things have been known, though I admit it’s the wrong shape.’
I undid the string and unwrapped the parcel on Beattie’s bed. It opened to reveal white tissue paper, which I unfolded. A nightdress, little more than a slip, what Hollywood stars called a negligée, in the peach satin I’d admired in Finckler’s studio. I stared at it.
‘I told you he liked you.’
There was a sheet of thin writing paper in the parcel.
I wish I had more of this satin to make you an evening dress. F.
‘I should write and thank him, but . . .’
‘You can’t.’
Best not to draw any more lines between us and Finckler, I supposed.
‘What are you thinking?’ Beattie asked.
‘I was wondering why he liked me.’
He looked at me curiously. ‘That’s probably the only completely truthful answer you’ve ever given me, Hall. You like to keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself, don’t you?’
‘It’s how we’re encouraged to be, isn’t it? Stiff upper lip, mustn’t complain, keep your chin up . . .’
Beattie laid a hand on the gown and ran his fingers over it.
‘But you’d never want to unburden yourself to me, would you, Anna?’
I decided to be truthful again. ‘No.’
My negligée was still spread out over Beattie’s bed. I folded it.
‘I’ll find a way of getting word to him that his present went down well,’ Beattie said. ‘The talent of the man – to run something like that up so quickly.’
I picked up the gown and the wrappings. ‘I suppose I should turn in now.’ I might have been fifteen again, aware of my developing body, of the eyes of the boys I passed on the street to and from school, longing to run home and hide in my bedroom.
‘I can see why Finckler does well here,’ Beattie said. ‘The Portuguese do good embroidery, but their nightgowns tend to be like something your grandmother would wear, neck to toe.’
As I said goodnight, I almost wished Finckler’s present had been a modest Portuguese garment. All the same, when I unwrapped it again, I had to try it on. It fell over my body like a second skin – simple, with small, capped sleeves, without lace or anything other than the glimmering soft satin, covering my legs to mid-thigh. In the mirror I saw how the peach cast a gentle glow over my skin. Even the burnt side of my face looked softer.
No wonder Finckler was so in demand, even among his mortal enemies.
I brushed my teeth and cleaned my skin with the precious last drop of lotion. I would wear the nightgown tonight. Hard to imagine how it would be received by the landlady at Lily Cottage on my return. I smiled, almost hearing concerned comments that I might find the house too draughty for such nightwear. This was a negligée for a starlet to wear lounging on a chaise longue, cocktail in hand. Almost against my will, I saw myself wearing it for Patrick, seeing his eyes light up, his hands reach for me. But what was the point of indulging these thoughts? The garment couldn’t hide my ruined face.
Tomorrow morning, if there was time, I would ask Beattie for an hour off to shop for more practical clothes. My landlady would appreciate a present, and any foodstuffs I could pack into my small suitcase would be welcomed for padding out the rations.
Someone knocked on my door. I hesitated, stories about the Gestapo or Portuguese secret police dragging people from their hotel rooms filling my mind.
‘It’s only me,’ Beattie called.
I opened the door on the chain. ‘What is it?’
From the corridor came the sound of voices approaching from the lift. German voices, male, a group of four or five. Instinctively I undid the chain, opened the door and beckoned Beattie into my room. I closed the door and heard their footsteps pass.
‘Trying to put the wind up us by coming to this floor,’ Beattie said. ‘I’ll have a word with reception.’
‘Somewhat unnerving,’ I said, aware that I was wearing nothing more than the negligée. I cast my eyes around the room, looking for my dressing gown.
His eyes were on me. My skin prickled where his gaze fell. ‘My God, Hall,’ he said. ‘I just came to ask if you had some spare paper. I need to make notes. You . . .’ He sounded choked.
Before I could blink, his arms were round my waist. My brain was whirring, trying to process what was happening and whether it was what I wanted. Had I ever regarded Beattie in a romantic – an erotic – light before? My mouth felt dry. The wine at dinner wasn’t the cause.
‘You look as though you belong in Hollywood or Cap Ferrat before the war.’ He released me and looked around my room.
I reached for the towel I’d left on the bed and wrapped it round my shoulders. The very act of covering up made it obvious how exposed I actually was.
‘This is a strange set-up for us both,’ he said.
I laughed, feeling tense rather than finding it funny.
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
I looked at him. He was completely serious.
‘Oh, ignore me, Anna. I’m in a strange old mood.’
I didn’t like to say I’d noticed.
‘I thought we were celebrating.’ I was trying to skirt over the awkwardness because it was our last night in the neutral city. I wasn’t certain what I felt about Lisbon now, though. For all its lights and shops there was a sense of danger here I hadn’t felt since the Blitz.
‘We are. But don’t you find that the moment of triumph is very fleeting? The best bit is when you’re hunting – when the person, the story, the slant is just within your grasp.’
‘And then it’s on to the next target, trying to recapture the same moment again?’ I knew what he meant. At times when he opened up about work like this a connection formed between us.
He nodded. ‘Never feeling satisfied for long. Perhaps that comes from when humans were hunter-gatherers, always on the move, always searching.’ He studied me. ‘You’re another restless soul, aren’t you, Anna?’
‘Am I?’ I had always prided myself on sticking to tasks, whether they were pursu
ing academic challenges or work targets.
‘Even if the fire hadn’t happened you’d have been getting restless in that RAF job of yours.’
‘They said I was good at what I did.’
‘Calm and accurate under pressure was how they phrased it in your reference. I can just see you at a table pushing around those bits and pieces that look as though they belong in a board game.’
He knew that my job in the Filter Room hadn’t been like this. He was trying to bait me. The connection between us had faded away again.
‘Approved for officer training, too, so you must have been promising. But there’s more to you than that, Hall.’
‘Is there?’
‘The kind of talent you’ll only uncover in a job that turns you inside out to reveal what’s hidden there.’
‘Like this one?’
‘Yes. And believe me, it’s only just warming up. War’s good for people like us.’ He was leaning towards me. ‘Our more unusual attributes are what’s needed. You and I may find peacetime harder.’
Peacetime. Street lights in London. Whipped cream on strawberries. Moonlight that didn’t feel treacherous for what it might draw from German skies. Beattie moved closer.
I could tell him I was tired. He’d return to his room. I knew him well enough to doubt he’d push me into doing something I didn’t want to do. But if I turned him down would he hold a grudge against me? Was it worth risking an atmosphere for the next month or so? Hopefully he had something in one of his pockets that would make the encounter safe. Years now since I’d slept with Patrick. Beattie looked at me, asking a silent question.
I removed the towel from my shoulders. Clad only in the negligée I lay back on the bedspread, which was made of thick white quilted cotton. Through the fine satin of the negligée I could feel its little ridges under my buttocks and shoulders. Beattie let out a sigh. ‘I’ve put you in a terrible position, haven’t I, Anna? Sleep with the boss or risk offending him. But you won’t offend me if you say no.’ He sounded suddenly young, more vulnerable. I told myself not to be taken in but still lay there on the bedspread.
‘I’m saying yes.’ Why? I didn’t have feelings for Beattie. But wasn’t there just a tiny bit of curiosity about him, which the wine and brandy had freed me to explore? Or was I reassuring myself that a man might still find me attractive?
He moved quickly and smoothly, surprising me for a man of his size, taking me in his arms again. ‘I could breathe you in all night.’
His breath was warm on me. I felt myself let go, inhaling and exhaling in time with him. Perhaps we could just stay like this without the need to do anything more. Being with him wasn’t as dizzying and magical as it had been with Patrick, but it wasn’t unpleasant; relaxing, really, almost companionable. Beattie moved his fingers under the negligée to my breasts. I felt like I had on the diving board in school swimming lessons: just close your eyes and do it.
I pushed him away gently and pulled the negligée over my head. Sometimes words complicated things. I reached out for his tie and undid it, letting its silk length slide down my naked body to the carpet.
His sigh was almost a gasp.
Beattie and I sat side by side in our seats in the Dakota. The hum of the engines made me drowsy; sleep had come late to me after Beattie had left my room in the early hours. I’d tossed in my bed, the negligée I’d replaced twisting its way round my thighs like a silken serpent. I’d woken just in time for breakfast and rushed out to do some shopping, feeling distracted and bleary-eyed.
Beattie was absorbed in reading a Times from the previous day that had come over on the outbound flight, yawning occasionally, his eyes pouched and shadowed. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well, either. I had no work that I could safely take out of my satchel here where curious eyes might glimpse it. The French novel I’d brought with me to Lisbon was still in my satchel, barely opened during this trip. I appeared to have fallen into a French novel myself, I noted, sleeping with a man I wasn’t even in love with just because . . . ? Because I was spoilt goods: a woman with a disfigurement, a female most men felt sorry for. Sometimes I felt their eyes on my back as I walked ahead of them in the street in my uniform. When they passed me or if I happened to turn around, the pupils of their eyes would constrict. Nothing of sexual interest here.
I was shallow to worry about my lost looks when innocent people raced to the very edge of Europe in an attempt to avoid imprisonment and death. I felt weariness at the immensity of what we were fighting. Or perhaps it was a reaction to Lisbon itself, to its dappled fatefulness and light. The plane lurched as it hit a pocket of turbulence. My left shoulder and leg fell against Beattie’s. His newspaper trembled, but he didn’t look away from the print.
As my eyes grew heavy and my head began to nod towards my shoulder it seemed that the propellers and engines were throbbing to the rhythm of my own thoughts. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?
5
Four weeks later
Micki put the battered duffle bag on her bed. ‘All my worldly goods are in there,’ she said. ‘Beattie gave me some money before you left Lisbon so I could buy clothes. I only had what I was wearing when I met you for the first time.’
‘“Met” sounds very polite,’ I said. As though we’d been introduced at a party instead of first encountering her when she stole Beattie’s wallet and pulled a knife on me.
She grinned. ‘I was polite after the first time.’
‘You were.’ I touched her arm. ‘It’s good that you’re here. Sorry the room’s so small.’ I grimaced as soon as I said the words; she’d been in far smaller and less wholesome accommodation in the last few years. That hovel in Lisbon she and Maxi had shared had probably not been the worst of it.
‘I like this room very much. I can see the trees in the garden.’ She said the words in a halting English, clearly making a big effort. Something in her accent puzzled me for a moment.
‘Of course, an Irish crew on that boat you came over on.’
She grinned again. ‘They told me they’d give me a brogue to confuse the English.’
‘I’m impressed. And it could be a useful disguise around here.’
She sat on the bed, looking smaller and younger. ‘I’m going to have to pretend I’m not from Germany, aren’t I?’
I sat next to her. ‘Probably best not to draw attention to the fact.’
‘The villagers wouldn’t like knowing there are Germans among them.’ She nodded. ‘I don’t like having the bastards around, either.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. ‘Tell me about the voyage,’ I asked in German.
‘The ship was really just a “coaster” boat. That worried me when we were so far off land, in open seas. It carried wheat and sugar from Lisbon to Dublin. The crew were kind to me. I slept in a cubicle the size of this bed, but it was pretty clean. We had fresh fruit from Lisbon. So I ate oranges and tried to improve my English when the crew had time.’
She was putting a good spin on it. The Irish boat would have been at risk from the U-boats and Luftwaffe, who had sunk a number of neutral vessels. The crew would have felt on edge. If the sea had been rough, the coaster would have tossed on the waves. No Dakota to Whitchurch for Micki – I’d had the devil’s job finding this passage for her. In the end, I’d gone to London to see an Irish friend of Beattie’s, taking with me a bottle of brandy and a box of cigars to secure the ticket.
‘Then the ferry across the Irish Sea.’ She grimaced. ‘That was worse – everyone was seasick apart from me. A woman met me in Liverpool and took me to some kind of camp. Questions, questions, questions for days and days.’
I could well imagine. A stateless girl of German origin, albeit Jewish? I’d heard Beattie on the telephone shouting at someone, telling them that a much-needed resource was being held up. Finally he’d stomped up to Liverpool on the train himself.
‘When Beattie appeared I could have hugged him,’ she said quietly.
‘He can be kind,’
I said.
She turned to me. ‘But not to you?’ There was a questioning expression in her eyes.
I stood up. ‘I’ll let you settle in. Lunch will be downstairs shortly and then we’ll walk to Mulberry House, ten minutes away. It’s Beattie’s lodgings and our workplace.’
‘We work in a house? I thought there would be an office.’
‘It’s a bit unusual. But we try to keep a low profile in the village.’
Micki sniffed. She had perhaps been thinking her new life in Britain would involve living and working somewhere more metropolitan.
She was pulling her possessions out of her duffle bag when I left her. A few shirts, the skirt that looked like a games skirt she’d worn in Lisbon, underwear, a single jumper. A toothbrush and hairbrush. An unframed photograph, which she placed on her bedside table. ‘I have a ration book now,’ she said, looking at the small pile on her bed. ‘Perhaps I can buy some new clothes in due course.’
‘I have lots of clothes I don’t wear,’ I said. ‘They’re at my father’s house in London but I’ll ask if—’
‘I don’t want charity.’
The uninjured part of my face felt hot. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘Ignore me, Anna.’ She fingered the edge of the quilt. ‘Your clothes are always lovely. I’m just not used to, well, people being kind to me.’
‘I can understand that.’
She frowned, obviously doubting this. And she was right. What would I know about being Jewish, hiding in my own country, then fleeing with a small and sick brother? I’d grown up as a comfortably off middle-class girl, never moneyed but never lacking shelter and love.
‘I remember what you were wearing in Lisbon,’ she said. ‘The beautiful dress and hat.’
‘I’ve always had a bit of a weakness for clothes. Not that I get much chance to wear them during working hours.’ I looked down at the hated WAAF skirt and made a face.
‘You could make anything look good,’ she said, ‘with your figure. Don’t mind me being snappy,’ she added quietly. ‘I owe it to you, Anna, that I’m here.’