by Clare Harvey
Edie smiled to herself, recalling the older woman’s pride, and the ribbing the sergeant had got in the mess at breakfast. But now the texture of the ground changed, she noticed, as she walked on in the dark: sharp stones had replaced the frozen earth. And there was an emptiness where the hedge bank had been. Perhaps she had reached the road already? She reached out a hand – there was something there: a gatepost? Suddenly a blinding flash, right in her face, and a voice: ‘Qui est là?’
‘Je m’appelle—’ She hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Je m’appelle Yvette Colbert.’
Chapter 2
Vera
The sky was opalescent and clear by the time they reached Sloane Avenue. Vera thanked the driver as she pulled up outside Nell Gwyn Court, saying she’d let herself out. There was hoar frost like patterned doilies on the windows, she noticed, climbing the steps. She heard the car move off as she pushed through the glass doors into the vestibule. The concierge was nowhere to be seen, and the air smelled of boiled fish and floor polish. Vera waited for the lift to appear. Her eyes felt as if someone had sandpapered the insides of the lids. She had tried to sleep on the journey, but it had been no good, and now it was already daybreak.
The apartment door opened from the inside to reveal her mother: sage-green housecoat and accusing stare. ‘Well, whoever he is, I do hope he’ll make an honest woman of you one day,’ she snapped. Vera pushed past and into the flat. ‘Gadding about, at all hours,’ her mother added, slamming the door.
‘Oh Mother, please—’ said Vera, putting her coat on the hook and going straight into the galley kitchen. She filled the kettle from the tap and lit the gas. Early sunlight glanced through the dusty window. Outside grey slates and black drainpipes shoved up against each other towards the little triangle of empty morning sky. Her mother stood, hands on hips, in the kitchen doorway as Vera put the kettle on to boil, and checked her watch. Of course there was no time for sleep, even if she’d been able to.
‘Any cigs in the house?’ she said. Her mother sighed and passed an open packet of Sobranies from the sideboard in the hall. Vera lit one from the gas, and waited for the kettle to whistle. She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the windowsill, running through a mental checklist: the figures for Tonkin needed rechecking; the outfits from the French tailor needed collecting; the last set of ID cards hadn’t really been up to scratch, so that needed attending to; there was the daily round-up of information to disseminate; and then of course there was the next-of-kin debriefing with Raoul’s wife – how she hated those debriefings: the blanched look on the relatives’ faces, and all those unanswerable questions. Vera swilled smoke out between her teeth. But before all of that, there was Buckmaster’s morning meeting. She inhaled properly this time, pulling the sweet smoke right down into her lungs. Buckmaster’s meeting to be got through, before she could even make a start on the rest of it. The kettle began its shrill whistle, and she looked over to ask her mother if she wanted a cup of tea, but she’d gone.
Vera poured hot water into an enamel bowl and took it across the hallway to the bathroom. She put the bowl in the sink, before going next door to her own room. Her bed was still made, pillowslip smoothed straight and floral eiderdown looking invitingly soft. She put her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the dressing table, and took clean cami-knickers and stockings from the drawer. In the bathroom she quickly undressed – it was biting cold – and gave herself a strip wash with the hot water. She put a dash of talcum powder in her armpits and groin before getting dressed again. It would just have to do today. Back in the bedroom she took a last puff on the Sobranie, and ground it out. There was a little dribble of Chanel left in the bottle, so she dotted that behind her ears, brushed her hair and applied fresh lipstick, not even bothering to sit down at the dressing table. She could hear her mother clattering about in the kitchen, being unnecessarily noisy, Vera thought, making some kind of point. If her mother thought she was having a wild liaison, then so be it: it was safer than her knowing the truth.
She checked her watch, and it glinted, catching an early ray of sun. She sighed. Was it that time already?
She was taking her coat back off the peg when her mother called from the kitchen: didn’t she at least want breakfast? Her mother appeared, proffering a plate of fried bread. Vera shook her head; there was no time. She did up every single one of the frog clasps on her fur – it was always so damned cold in this country – and pulled on her gloves.
Outside, the sun was fully up, washing the grey streets with cool yellow light. There was still that bomb crater where the bus stop used to be. She quickened her pace. If she hurried she might catch the 74 from further up by Exhibition Road. If only she had enough funds to take a taxi every day. She hurried on.
Edie
‘You shouldn’t have hesitated,’ Justine said as they bumped along, the horse’s hooves plodding softly on the track. ‘If you stop like that, they’ll know. They’re not stupid; they can tell if it’s an obvious lie.’
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea you is there,’ said Edie, watching the muddy road wind away through the fields behind them.
‘Were,’ Justine corrected. ‘No idea you were there. Really, you have to at least use the right tense. Slip up on grammar and that’s another thing that’ll get you noticed. And just look at you, so English, mon Dieu!’ Justine sucked her teeth, and Edie looked away, out over the empty French countryside. The last vestiges of night were a purple smear along the western horizon, and the sky was empty. The wind had died down now. The air was cold, but the morning sun warmed one side of her body. Her suitcase and the case containing her wireless set were beside her, and the pile of damp logs prodded her back at each jolt of the cart. ‘So,’ Justine continued, pushing her black curls off her forehead, ‘let’s try again. What’s your name?’
‘Yvette Colbert,’ Edie replied.
‘And you’re from?’
‘Paris.’
‘And what do you do, Yvette?’
‘I’m a piano teacher. I visit children in their homes, and teach them piano.’
‘Do you live with your family?’
‘No, they live in Honfleur, by the sea.’
‘How long have you lived in Paris, Mademoiselle Colbert?’
‘Since—’ Edie paused.
‘No, no, no. You must not just stop like that! You should know these things. I thought you were supposed to be fully prepared. They said they’d send a trained operative, not an English schoolgirl.’ Justine sucked her teeth again.
Edie turned her face away from Justine so that it caught the morning sunshine fully. She closed her eyes; the warmth made her feel sleepy. It had been such a long night. Justine elbowed her and Edie opened her eyes and turned back to her new colleague, seeing her clearly now the sun was up: small eyes with irises so dark they looked almost black; arched brows above a pinched nose. There was a vertical line in the middle of her forehead, etched deep into her pale brow. She reminded Edie a little of her old staff sergeant, back with the ATS. Edie wondered what Justine’s real name was. She’d probably never find out.
‘Alors, let’s have a smoke and then try again,’ said Justine, pulling out a leather tobacco pouch and beginning to roll a cigarette. When she’d finished she offered it to Edie.
Edie shook her head. ‘No thank you – I don’t.’ Even the smell of smoke still reminded her of that night last summer; it made her feel sick to her stomach.
Justine gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘So, you don’t smoke, you don’t know your background properly, and as for your hair – you’ll never pass for French looking like that. We’ll have to keep you hidden away in the Paris catacombs like some English ghost,’ she said, puffing rapidly at the cigarette and flicking ash away onto the road that twisted below their dangling legs.
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ said Edie.
‘No Frenchwoman would have a style like that.’ Justine blew smoke through pursed lips. Edie wondered what on earth was wrong with it. She’d bee
n under the impression that she was here to outwit the Nazis, to send coded messages so that the French Resistance could communicate with the SOE headquarters in London, to help win the war – not to discuss the latest fashion in coiffure with this prickly Frenchwoman. Would the Gestapo or the Sicherheitsdienst really be that perceptive, notice a slip in grammar, and an unfashionable hairstyle? Edie wondered. ‘It’s not just the SD, you know, there are plenty of informers. It’s impossible to tell whose side people are on,’ said Justine, reading Edie’s mind, and flicking her cigarette butt into the road.
The horse’s harness jangled and the gently trudging hooves gave way to clopping as the cart rumbled onto cobblestones. They must be nearly there now, Edie thought. They passed an orchard – ranks of arthritic apple trees, naked in the sunlight – and a water pump, then an empty barn, and then the white-plastered houses. The cart tipped as they began to go uphill into the town, and the pile of logs shifted, pushing into them. Edie held on to the handle of the case containing her wireless set. She heard the farmer grunt something at the horse and the swish of reins.
‘So, Yvette, how long have you lived in Paris?’ said Justine.
‘Since early 1940, before the Occupation,’ Edie replied, without hesitation this time.
‘Good, now take this.’ Justine undid the scarf that she was wearing. It had brightly coloured triangles on a cream background. ‘Take it, take it!’ she said, holding it out. So Edie took it; it was silk, she noticed, slippery between her fingertips. ‘Tie it round your hair,’ Justine ordered. Edie tried, but the jolting cart made her frozen fingertips slither. ‘Here, let me,’ Justine said, and smoothed Edie’s hair off her face before tying the scarf neatly under her chin. ‘Better, but not French yet. Don’t you have any make-up? You’re supposed to be a Parisian, you know.’
‘No,’ Edie began, then remembered Miss Atkins’ gift. ‘Yes, yes, I have powder.’ She took the compact from her pocket and clicked it open. She squinted into the little round mirror, dabbing the powder over her nose and cheeks.
‘You can have my lipstick,’ said Justine, handing her a little gilt cylinder. Inside was the stub of a lipstick, cyclamen-pink. ‘Use your finger; it will last longer.’ Edie smudged pink over her lips with her forefinger, blotting her lips together to work the colour in and checking her reflection in the silver circle. She remembered the last time she’d worn lipstick, that night last summer. She remembered the GI with his mouth hard and wet on hers, and his thick, forcing hands. I’m not that woman any more, she thought. I’ve left her behind. She passed the lipstick back to Justine, but Justine told her to keep it. Edie thanked her and put it into her pocket, where it clinked against the powder compact.
The cart rumbled on. A fat woman in black was opening the shutters of a boulangerie. She could hear the sound of a baby crying from an upstairs window. Pigeons fluttered away from the cartwheels. ‘Nearly there,’ said Justine. A man was putting tables and chairs up outside a café in the town square. Smoke drifted from chimney pots. ‘Do you have your ID papers and travel pass to hand?’ said Justine. Edie nodded, as the cart stopped outside the station. ‘Just remember not to make eye contact. And let me take this one,’ Justine said, jumping down from the back of the cart and taking the case containing the wireless transmitter. Edie dropped down beside her, and heaved her suitcase off. It was dusty and scratched from the log pile. ‘Let’s go,’ said Justine, pulling her towards the station entrance. The old farmer nodded at them as they thanked him for the lift. The horse snorted steam from its nostrils and stamped, impatient to move off.
There was a white wooden fence around the station, and a gateway to the platform. The slanting sunshine made long shadows on the station buildings, chunks of charcoal breaking up the glare. Because of this, Edie didn’t see the man until they were at the entrance, a dark figure in the shadows: his grey uniform, black boots, weapon slung diagonally across his chest. Forgetting Justine’s advice, she looked straight into his eyes: slate-coloured, bored-looking, glancing over her. He held out a large hand. ‘Ausweis, bitte, Fräulein.’
Vera
‘I’m not signing the damn thing,’ Vera said, sweeping past the ledger on Margaret’s desk. She saw Margaret biting her lip. Buckmaster was trying to instigate some kind of log of who was in the office and when, making them sign in and out with the secretary. It was ridiculous, treating them like factory workers, clocking on. Vera tutted. She couldn’t bear registers of any kind. It reminded her of that day in 1937, not long after she’d arrived in London.
‘Sign here,’ the bald man had said, pointing with a chubby forefinger at the space on the ledger. The queue snaked away behind her, a stream of huddled men and women in their drab, damp overcoats, all the way out of the doors of the police station, and right along the pavement towards Covent Garden. Vera had been stuck with them for hours, shuffling forward a few inches along the pavement every couple of minutes, feeling the drizzle seep through her good fox fur and trickle down her neck. She stared down at the line on the page, wedged underneath the mass of other signatures and details. The woman behind her was coughing loudly into her hand; she wasn’t even carrying a handkerchief. Vera shuddered, thinking of TB.
‘My dear boy,’ Vera began, realising this was her last chance. ‘Is this strictly necessary? Perhaps there has been some kind of mistake?’ She opened her palm to reveal the wad of notes it contained – probably more than one month’s salary for this officious little man. He cleared his throat and she watched as his hand moved towards hers, and for a moment she thought she was home and dry. But instead of sliding the money into his own hand, he curled his pudgy fingers round hers, so the money remained in her palm. Then he gave it a little tap with his fingertips, as if shooing away a fly. Vera felt herself flush. She pushed her fist deep into her coat pocket, underneath her handkerchief, and let go of the roll of notes.
‘Sign here, please, madam,’ he repeated, poking the thick cream paper again. So Vera picked up the pen and signed, filling in her date of birth and nationality. The man waved her on to the next desk, where she had to do the same thing again, in triplicate, but this time with details of her address, marital status and next of kin. After that a beaky woman with spectacles told her she was free to leave. Vera walked towards the big wooden doors, furious that an accident of birth had brought her to this. She thought of her elder brothers: lucky Ralph to have been born in Colonial South Africa and so be British by birth; lucky Guy to have been in England earlier in the decade, when naturalisation was as easy to obtain as a driving licence; unlucky Vera, the only one in her family not to belong. She pushed open the door and was in the street. The coughing woman followed her out into the blanket of London drizzle.
Vera crossed the road to distance herself from the unhealthy woman, and the disconsolate trudge of the other ‘aliens’ disgorging from Bow Street Police Station. She didn’t even want to be near them. There was a ladder leaning up the side of the cobbler’s opposite. A man in a flat cap swung a bucket and rag, cleaning the upstairs windows, whistling to himself. He looked down as she approached and broke off. ‘Ruddy foreigners,’ he called, looking down at her as she walked along the pavement towards him. She looked straight ahead, ignoring the horrid little oik. But his ladder spanned the pavement. To go round it would mean walking through the gutter: oily puddles and fag butts. ‘Get back to where you came from,’ he yelled, cockney vowels twanging. Vera continued along the pavement; she wasn’t going to walk in the gutter, and to hell with the silly English superstition about walking under ladders. She heard the man clearing his throat. She felt a soft plop on the crown of her hat as she walked underneath his ladder. She walked swiftly on, pretending not to notice or care that she had just been spat on by a window cleaner.
Vera turned down a side street, and ducked into a shop doorway. She took off her hat. It was her best one: fine black felt dressed with a pheasant’s tail. The gobbet of spit lay just off-centre on the crown: grey-green and shiny. Vera pursed her lips and took her
handkerchief from her pocket. She rubbed the spit off, scrunching it up into the centre of the hankie. But there was still a faint stain, like a snail trail, where it had been. Vile man. How dare he?
Vera put the hat back on and walked out into the moisture-soaked London air, still so angry that she’d lost her sense of direction. Which way was it to the Tube? She scanned the buildings looking for a street sign. As she did so, a shop front caught her eye. Like a spilled jewellery case, it was a tangle of colours: garnet, ruby, emerald and sapphire. Frocks, hats and scarves jostled for space. Vera stepped up off the kerb and pushed the glass door. A bell tinkled as she entered. It was darker inside the shop, but still vibrated with colour. Vera’s fingertips brushed the sleeve of a Schiaparelli-pink dress on a mannequin beside her: real silk – good quality, too. A bell-shaped woman who looked as if she’d been sewn into her royal-blue suit appeared from behind a counter. ‘Is madam looking for anything in particular?’ the woman said, her lip-sticked mouth shiny as a toffee apple. Yes, Vera replied, feeling the nest of notes in her coat pocket, yes she was, as a matter of fact.
Vera chose half a dozen silk scarves for herself in shades of amber, garnet and aquamarine – the colours of sunset on the Mediterranean. Then she tried on a red pillbox hat with a veil. ‘Very Mayfair, madam,’ the shop assistant said as Vera admired herself in the long cheval mirror. The shop assistant packed everything carefully in pale pink tissue paper tied with ribbons. Vera said she’d like to keep the new hat on, and when the assistant asked whether she would like her old hat in a hatbox, Vera said no, and told her just to throw it away, ignoring the upward jink of the saleslady’s eyebrows at the waste of it.