The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  The acidic sunshine squeezed all the colour out of the houses in Burlington Gardens. The Arcade was still a tumbledown mess from the Blitz. The air smelled dirty, thick with fumes and dust. Her teeth clenched, eyes pricked, hot with unshed tears. She walked quickly, as if trying to escape her own shadow, which slid along paving stones and crept up brickwork beside her.

  She was gasping for a ciggie, but she’d left hers on the table at the Dorchester, along with – no. She paused, realising – the photograph of Dick, the one of him in his RAF uniform. She should go back. But risk running into Mrs Ketton-Cremer? No, it was more than she could bear right now. She began walking again, almost at the junction where Savile Row cornered into Vigo Street. She’d get this over with first, and then go back to the Dorchester.

  She stopped on the kerb opposite number 1 Savile Row. There it was, four floors of British establishment, white stucco peppered with London soot, Union Jack flipping idly from the flagpole above the entrance: Gieves & Hawkes, military outfitters. She waited for a taxi to pull out of the junction, then crossed over to the other side.

  As she did so, she noticed a man swing round the corner from Vigo Street. They arrived at the outfitters steps at the same time.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

  Dericourt

  ‘Miss Atkins, what a pleasure,’ said Henri. He hadn’t expected to see her. He’d been under the impression that she spent her whole working day holed up at Norgeby House, not even breaking for lunch.

  She’d reached Gieves & Hawkes just before him, and already had one foot on the bottom step. He had to tilt his head up slightly to meet her gaze; she had the high ground. ‘Been off making friends in Piccadilly, have we?’ she said, inclining her head in the direction from which he’d come.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been having lunch with Monsieur Humphries at his club,’ he replied. Let her imply that he’d been visiting prostitutes if she wanted. But they operated in the same milieu; he was her equal, and she knew it.

  ‘Hump?’ she said, and he saw her eyebrows rise. ‘I didn’t know you two were acquainted.’

  ‘I thought everyone knew Hump,’ he said with a shrug.

  Her face, in the bright afternoon light, looked old, he thought. The candlelight of the send-off dinners at the airfield was more flattering to a woman of her age. Here in the unforgiving sunshine he could see every wrinkle, and the way her lipstick bled into the smoker’s lines at the edges of her mouth. ‘I thought you’d be in Tempsford,’ she said.

  ‘I shall be, later. The Met boys say it’s set fine for the night. But I had some errands to run in town.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, running her eyes up and down, as if scanning his outfit for something. ‘Well, so do I. Good day to you, Monsieur Dericourt.’ She turned and began to walk up the steps.

  Henri walked up behind her, and they reached the glass doorway together. It was taped up into diamond shapes, reminding him of old-fashioned leaded windows, like the ones in the big house. He supposed his mother still worked there – what else was there for her? He still hadn’t been back to visit, despite landing the little plane so close to the family home.

  ‘Are you following me, Dericourt?’ Miss Atkins said as he reached past her to push open the door. His arm brushed her back. He felt her shiver. ‘Because I have an appointment to pick up my WAAF uniform, my dear boy.’ Ah, but she was hard, he thought, every syllable like a rap from an impatient teacher’s ruler.

  ‘I, too, have an Air Force uniform to pick up, Miss Atkins,’ he said, following her into the outfitter’s. Touché.

  Vera

  Vera was aghast. ‘But you’re not British!’ she said, the words falling from her mouth before she could stop herself, thinking of all the compromises she’d had to make to get her precious naturalisation granted, and qualify to wear her WAAF uniform. ‘You’re no more British than—’ she began.

  ‘I’m no more British than you are,’ the odious Dericourt broke in. How dare he?

  She looked round. An assistant was hunched over, measuring a piece of fabric against a metal ruler that was fixed into the counter top. He took out shears and Vera heard the material tear and fall. The clock on the wall tick-tocked, and Dericourt smirked, before continuing, ‘Because I was in the French Air Force and we worked together with the RAF in Syria. So they agreed to let me have a uniform, because we’re on the same side, really.’

  It is not the same side, Vera thought. How could they possibly allow this charlatan to wear the same uniform that Dick had.

  The man on the counter unfolded himself and asked if there was anything he could help them with. Dericourt gestured to Vera and she explained that she was here to pick up the WAAF uniform she’d been measured up for. She gave her name, and he opened his fat leather-bound order book, pulling a bony finger down the page and nodding when he’d found her details. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘And I remember you, sir.’ He smiled at Dericourt, showing a line of uneven teeth, like tombstones. ‘One moment, please.’

  He disappeared through the doorway behind the counter, leaving Vera standing awkwardly with Dericourt. She watched the minute hand on the clock jerk forward a notch. She could hear Dericourt breathing, next to her. The shop was suffocating, all polished wood, plush and woollen uniforms. Hurry up, she thought. Please hurry up.

  Eventually the man reappeared with two large paper bags. There was some confusion about whose they were. They had to pull out clothes, check which one had a skirt and which trousers, swap bags. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It wasn’t how she’d envisioned it at all. She’d imagined writing a long letter to Dick about how well she’d got on with her future mother-in-law, and enclosing a picture of her in her new WAAF uniform. It would have been perfect. Now it was all ruined, all of it. She sighed, taking the correct bag, thanked the assistant, and prepared to leave.

  ‘But madam must try it on first,’ the man said.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine. Your tailors have an excellent reputation,’ Vera replied. Let me go. Please just let me go, now.

  ‘If the fit isn’t perfect it will reflect very badly on Gieves & Hawkes, madam,’ the assistant said.

  Vera sighed again. ‘As you wish. Then I shall try it on.’

  Dericourt

  He could hear everything: the soft swish as she hung up her coat. He imagined her taking off that ridiculous hat of hers and hanging that up, too. She’d be bare-headed now: her hair was a rich dark brown, like good coffee – no greys that he’d noticed. She’d be beginning to unbutton her suit jacket, he thought, wondering what she was wearing underneath. The black velvet curtain between their cubicles trembled.

  She’d expected him to be a gentleman about it, to let the lady try on her uniform first. But he was no gentleman. The cubicles were intimately close: just the plush cloth between their two undressing bodies. He heard another soft brush of material: she was hanging her jacket up. What next?

  He undid his own jacket and slung it on one of the brass hooks, loosened his tie, and looped that over, too. He began to unfasten his shirt, thinking of her slender fingers unhooking pearl buttons on a silky blouse. The swish of her removing her top coincided with her sigh. He pulled off his own shirt, and threw it on the back of the chair in the corner. He heard her clear her throat. He looked down at the gap between the cubicle curtain and the burgundy carpet. He saw her skirt fall, heaping up, and the spikes of her heels sinking into the carpet pile as she stepped out of it. He let himself imagine her legs, firm and smooth, stocking tops girdling creamy thighs. He bent over to undo his laces, and kicked his shoes into the corner.

  His RAF uniform was waiting on the seat of the chair, a neat pile of grey-blue wool, the colour of the undersides of clouds. He hadn’t checked his rank, wondered what they’d given him. He told them he was a commandant in the French Air Force, so he should have got squadron leader with the British, surely?

  He undid his belt buckle and began to unhook the fly. The partition curtain shivered again as the At
kins woman nudged the fabric from the other side. She’d be down to her underwear now, he thought. What kind of style did she prefer? She had quite an athletic frame for a woman of her age: good muscle tone, strong haunches. He imagined her playing tennis, like the girls at the big house that he’d watched as a boy, hiding in the bushes on those long summer afternoons when he should have been at school – they’d never guessed he was there.

  He stepped out of his trousers, and slung them over the chair back with his shirt, thinking about what colour underwear Miss Akins wore: virginal white or sinful black? No, less obvious, he thought: a tricky shade of something that was neither one colour nor the other, like coral or turquoise. He glimpsed again the black points of her heels, moving around inside her cubicle. He imagined her in just underwear and heels. She wasn’t much older than Jeannot, he guessed.

  He heard her cough, clear her throat again, and the swish of cloth as she began to dress. She’s uncomfortable with this. Good, let her sweat.

  He reached for his uniform. The wool on the trousers was a little rough, but they fitted well enough. Of course he’d never be able to wear the uniform to fly in. It would be kept for him to wear at the airfield, for the send-off dinners – and for when he was out and about in Britain. It would be very useful to be able to blend in with everyone else. And Miss Atkins would blend in, too, he thought, putting on the cotton shirt. They would both look just the same as everyone else.

  He picked up the RAF jacket, and checked the insignia. Pilot officer: never mind – he shrugged it on. He could hear Miss Atkins putting on her own jacket in the next-door cubicle as he leant over to push his shoes back on. He wondered what rank they’d given her. If she were just an NCO, she’d have to salute him. Ah, that was a pleasant thought. He was smiling as he pulled aside the curtain and came out into the shop.

  Vera

  Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? The Dorchester was ahead of them. All she wanted to do was go and get Dick’s photograph back. It might already be too late. His mother might have seen it and taken it. The waiter might have pocketed the cigarette case. But there was a chance. There was still a chance.

  ‘What is it you have to go to the hotel for?’ Dericourt said, making it sound as if it were she who was pursuing him, not the other way round.

  ‘I left something precious behind at luncheon, and I was rather hoping it would still be there,’ she replied, not looking at him, staring straight ahead along the pavement, willing the hotel to get closer. She increased her pace and the Dorchester slowly magnified.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you find it,’ Dericourt said.

  ‘No. No, thank you. I can cope.’

  It was the only photo of Dick she had where he was on his own. All the others were snaps of him in a group: taken at après-ski parties or fancy-dress balls. She thought again of Mrs Ketton-Cremer: Dick said a lot of things to a lot of girls, I’m afraid. But Vera had been more than just another one of Dick’s girls, hadn’t she? They’d had an agreement. He’d promised – what exactly had he promised? Five hundred pounds, he’d left her in his will. Enough to buy a little flat somewhere, Vera supposed. She thought of Felbrigg Hall, and blinked rapidly, blotting everything out.

  ‘There’s no need for you to escort me, really,’ she said as Dericourt kept pace with her. He moved briefly into her slipstream to make way for an old lady with a stick approaching from the opposite direction. Then he was at her side again.

  ‘I have to go back to the hotel anyway,’ he said. ‘I need to check out.’

  Of course, Dericourt was staying at the Dorchester. Dericourt always stayed at the Dorchester – and Vera still hadn’t got to the bottom of who picked up the tab for his little jaunts. But how dreadful, she thought now, as they reached the path towards the front entrance. There’s no escape.

  They reached the revolving doors together. At least we’re both in uniform, she thought. People will take us for colleagues, nothing more.

  She left Dericourt behind in the ice-rink entrance hall. At the restaurant the maître d’ recognised her, despite her outfit change. ‘We found these at your table,’ he said, holding out the almost-empty cigarette case and lighter. She flipped the case open. There. There he was, smiling, looking straight at her: My sweet, my darling, my love.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, fumbling for her purse, for the man deserved a generous tip. But she had her other clothes in the Gieves & Hawkes bag, and her handbag as well. Things tangled. The maître d’s fingertips glanced off the sleeve of her WAAF jacket. No need, he said with his Italian accent. It was a pleasure to be able to help someone who was doing so much for the country.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Vera said, turning away so he couldn’t see her face grimace with the effort of withholding tears.

  There was a smattering of afternoon clientele taking tea: plates of éclairs and scones, sandwiches in white triangles like starched collars. Vera’s eyes scanned the room, taking in all those people who were laughing, smoking, eating, drinking, as if everything was just tickety-boo. As if life was one long merry-go-round and nothing was happening in North Africa, Russia, the Far East. As if nothing was even happening just a hundred miles away in Occupied France.

  Thanking the maître d’ again, and turning to leave, Vera thought of the agent codenamed Yvette. She thought of the compromised messages, the cipher from ‘Claude’, the nagging feeling of unease she had every time she saw a code come in with the call sign Cat. All those clues she’d chosen to ignore, but to what end? Dick was dead, and the war was everywhere. It was all for nothing.

  The cigarette case was still open in her palm, and she took one last glance at the photograph of Dick with his open smile. But instead of love, all she now felt was guilt. She shut the lid, put the case in her pocket and walked out of the restaurant.

  In the entrance hall Henri Dericourt was still waiting for the lift. Vera swerved to avoid him. But there in front of her, by the revolving doors, engaged in conversation with the doorman, was Dick’s mother. It was too much. Vera turned. The lift pinged and the doors slid open, and she followed Dericourt inside before Mrs Ketton-Cremer could see her.

  ‘Miss Atkins,’ Dericourt said as the lift doors closed behind them. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ She couldn’t bring herself to respond. There was the heart-sinking rush as the lift rose, and with it an unbidden sob escaped her mouth. She put a hand up to stifle it, and her fingers felt the hot wetness of tears. No. I will not cry. I will not give in. ‘Ah, Miss Atkins.’ His breath at her neck, his arms round her shoulders.

  The sobs jerked up like vomit and the tension gripped her forehead like a vice. ‘No, no,’ she choked out. Her insides disintegrating, mouth pulled, lips curled, jaw squeezed. ‘No!’

  But his arms: warm, strong – the feel of the fabric of his Air Force jacket.

  To be touched, to be held, that was all.

  Dericourt

  ‘Come, chicken.’ Henri found himself speaking to Miss Atkins as if she were Jeannot. ‘Come,’ and he led her from the lift towards his room. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside. She was still sobbing: loud, tearing sounds. Once he’d shut the door, he embraced her again, stroking her back, not saying anything.

  In the end, it was her lips that found his, surprising him with the depth of passion: tongue, lips – biting, sucking. She tore off his new uniform, stripping him naked. She kept her own clothes on, and her eyes closed, even as she pushed him to the floor, and straddled him. He plunged into her. She rode him harshly, angrily, tears streaming blindly down her face. But her sobs were replaced by cries of pleasure as her back arched and she was gone, screaming out another man’s name.

  She slipped off him, finished, eyes still wet with tears, falling back onto the hotel rug: hair mussed, lipstick smudged, WAAF skirt hoicked up, showing her suspender belt, the ripped gusset of her knickers. He pushed himself up, looking at her there: in that moment she was his. With a few quick strokes he was done, an exquisite vinegar surge, splashing all
over the shiny brass buttons and the rank badge. Ah, Miss Atkins.

  Henri propped himself up, sleep-dizzy with the rush of it. He looked down at her, chest rising and falling under the blue-grey wool. She was a handsome woman, still. And the best fuck he’d had in a long time. Her hair fell away from her now-impassive face. She’d stopped crying.

  ‘Nice earrings,’ he said, noticing them as he found his discarded trousers and grappled in the pocket for cigarettes. ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘Naturally,’ she replied, opening her eyes.

  They regarded each other for a moment across the length of her uniformed body. His cock lay flaccid and useless on his thigh. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. She propped herself up, held out a hand, and he passed it over. They shared the cigarette between them, drag after drag, not speaking. He reached for the marble ashtray from the bedside table and placed it on the floor between them. It was she who took the final drag, and as she ground out the butt, she spoke. ‘If you like my earrings so very much, you can have them. But in return I need you to do something for me, Monsieur Dericourt.’

  Chapter 18

  Edie

  ‘I need the salt,’ Rosa said. Edie reached for the salt cellar. Her handcuffs jinked as she passed it awkwardly over. They’d cuffed her since the incident with the pigeon in the avenue Foch garden with Kieffer.

  She closed her eyes, smashing it down again and again, not wanting to see the pulpy black-redness oozing out. She remembered how her wrist was caught, held high. There were shouts. She dropped the stone; it thudded down. She opened her eyes and Kieffer was staring at her, wide-eyed, smile gone. Had he thought she was going for him? The driver, who’d run across to grab her, now wound her arm up behind her, and pushed her back towards the front door, past the remains of the pigeon, its skull smashed like rotten summer fruits on the damp grass. ‘I couldn’t bear to see it suffering,’ she’d said, trying to explain. But they couldn’t understand her English. She wanted them to know that all she’d tried to do was release the dying bird from its pain. She wanted someone to understand her, she thought, as they shoved her back indoors. She wanted someone – she wanted Gerhardt.