Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  ‘Do you think you should?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Hearing about Jason though, doing so well, it makes me want to pound the pool.

  ‘Got a goodnight kiss for your old Dad?’

  I bend down, his moustache and the crumbs of prawn cracker tickle my lips as I kiss him.

  ‘Thanks again for dinner.’

  Dad waves his hand in a ‘don’t be silly’ way. I leave him flicking through the movie channels.

  I’ll find him on the sofa in the morning, empty bottles on the coffee table, TV on, wallet lying open at the picture of him and Mum.

  I tramp up the stairs. Sometimes I think about destroying that photo. Pulling it out of Dad’s wallet and ripping her up into pieces.

  Poor old Shirley never stood a chance. Her face that day in the shop, when he opened his wallet to pay for lunch and she spotted the photo. Dad didn’t even realise, just put his change away, carried on flirting in his own useless way. Shirley saw me watching, smiled as if nothing had happened, but we both knew.

  Sometimes I feel like shaking Dad, she’s not coming back, she left us. But he knew her better than I did, loved her more, misses her more. Sometimes I wish she’d died, at least then she’d be worthy of his grief.

  It’s still early but I’m worn out, full of food and gas. I sit on my bed, peel my socks off, pick at my feet. I get the cotton wool and the nail polish remover, rub it over my toenails and fingernails, wipe away the colour. Paint them purple, hide the stained and cracked nails underneath.

  As it dries, I lie back on my bed, wake hours later, still fully clothed on top of the covers.

  (like father, like daughter)

  12

  THE GUNSHOT WOKE her. She never really slept properly these days anyway, never let herself relax. Always on the periphery of sleep, she had odd fragmented dreams, often in Morse code.

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  She was exhausted but her body kept going. It was her eyes that gave her away. Dry, itchy, always wanting to close but not able to. They reminded her how much she wanted to lay her head down, allow herself to drop, drop, drop all the way. To go past the dreams into a sleep where she knew nothing and woke refreshed.

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  A second shot, closer this time, forced her out of bed. Was that a car engine she could hear?

  She slid the pistol out from under her mattress, put on shoes, a skirt, jumper. Her fingers throbbed, swollen with chilblains from cold nights tapping skeds back home. Her paddle finger doubled as her trigger finger.

  She edged towards the window, the wooden shutters were closed but she left the window open at night.

  Make sure you have an escape route planned in case you need to make a quick getaway.

  She listened for a signal. A warning. Their agreed whistle. The go-ahead to hide or flee.

  Nothing came though. Just the sound of a dog barking.

  17 January 1944

  Circuit code name: Sand Dune

  Organiser: Alex Sylvan

  Agent: Marièle Downie

  Field Name: Sabine Valois

  Code name: Blackbird

  Agent to join Sand Dune circuit (27-land) as replacement w/t operator/possible courier, following the regrettable capture and disappearance of previous. To be transported by felucca on 20.02.1944. Arrangements have been made and communicated to circuit organiser.

  .. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...

  She stood at the window, peered through the slats in the shutters. Who was out there? She was in danger, felt her skin prickle.

  Trust your instincts. They will keep you alive.

  ‘Merde,’ she whispered – it was too dark to see anything. She crept across the bedroom, opened the door onto the kitchen. Her escape route was meant to be out the bedroom window, but she couldn’t be sure that it was safe. It sounded like someone was out there.

  She was grateful she had left her transmitter in the cachette. At least she didn’t have to worry about them finding it here.

  ‘Sabine, who’s out there? Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ Madame Poirier peered out from her own bedroom. She held a candle, dressed in a full-length night gown, hair in a net. She’d never make it if they had to run.

  ‘Je ne sais pas, stay there, ssshhh, ne fais pas de bruit.’

  Madame Poirier nodded, stepped back into the darkness of her bedroom.

  Congratulations to all of you on completing the training. You will be pleased to hear that most of you are now entitled to go on leave. You will be contacted individually concerning any future arrangements.

  Please always remember that, even if you do everything we have taught you, we still cannot guarantee your safety. Never let your guard down or relax your defences.

  Sabine padded across the stone floor towards the front door, lifted the latch. She hesitated, preparing herself to pull the door, slowly, slowly, slowly open when she saw a shadow.

  Feet.

  The door thrust open against her. It caught her on the side of the head and she fell backwards, dropping her pistol.

  She put a hand to her head, felt the blood, wet and warm. It stuck in her hair, dripped down her forehead into her eyes. She felt around for her gun, saw the boot connect, heard the pistol spin away across the stone floor.

  Oh God, this was bad, very bad. A torch shone down on her and she looked up to see the German soldier.

  The trainer stood in front of the full-length poster, pointing at the various pictures of men, uniforms, insignias, while the class recited back at him.

  Gefreiter

  Leutnant

  Oberleutnant

  Hauptmann

  SS Hauptsturmführer

  SS Obersturmführer

  ‘Sabine Valois?’ He pointed his Luger at her.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça? Assaulting me at home like this.’

  ‘We have orders to take you in for questioning. We know Sabine Valois is an alias and that you are a British spy.’

  ‘What? C’est ridicule.’

  .. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  I am twenty-one years old.

  I am living with my aunt while I recover from rheumatic fever.

  My name is Sabine Valois.

  J’ai vingt-et-un ans.

  I have been ill. Rheumatic fever.

  The doctor sent me to the country to recuperate.

  I am staying with my aunt. My parents and younger sister live in Paris.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  .. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...

  ‘Sabine, ma nièce, ma nièce, are you hurt?’

  Madame Poirier rushed from her bedroom. The soldier looked up, lifted his pistol, shot her in the forehead. Sabine heard the moan of surprise and the thud as Madame slumped to the floor.

  ‘Your aunt is a terrible actress. On your feet.’ He fixed his pistol on Sabine. Dizzy, she put out a hand to steady herself as she stood, felt something wet at her feet. A puddle of blood. The smell of it was all around her, rich and musky.

  What now? What now?

  Parts of her training flashed in and out, like a Morse signal, what should she do?

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  The blood soaked into her shoes, she felt it pool between her toes.

  .. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  She’d memorised the story they gave her. Recited it over and over and over, until she felt like she’d erased her real memories. She had to make it believable, it had t
o roll off the tongue. There could be no holes, nothing they could stick a fingernail in and pick at. They had well-manicured hands, those Gestapo officers.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  How dare you suggest that I’m lying?

  I am speaking the truth.

  Je dis la vérité.

  I am Sabine Valois.

  She took the Marièle part of her and shut it away. Bullied Marièle into submission, let Sabine take over.

  Merle, the pianist, sending skeds back to Britain. Chilblains on her hand from the paddle.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  - .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--.

  Oh God, oh God.

  --- .... / --. --- -.. / --- .... / --. --- -..

  Please let her wake up, let this be a nightmare. Maybe she had finally succumbed? Allowed her eyes to close, slipped down, down, down, down.

  But no, this was all too vivid, too real.

  She’d been caught and dear Madame Poirier…

  Sabine had told her to go back to bed, left her there to die, instead of giving her a chance to run, to hide. Madame had trusted Sabine, tried to help her.

  --- .... / --. --- -..

  Sabine felt the nausea in her stomach, saliva coating her dry mouth. She swallowed back the sick, felt it burn her throat on the way down.

  The soldier gestured for her to move towards the door. His Luger in her back as he pushed her outside. Her feet stuck to the floor as she walked, leaving footprints on the stone.

  Should she try a persona?

  The swooning invalid.

  The simpleton.

  The seductress.

  Sabine.

  She and Eliza had giggled through that part of the training, embarrassed and awkward to role play in front of the others. It had seemed funny back then.

  18 January 1944

  Agent Downie is to report to HQ on 22 January at 13:00.

  ‘I know you’ve not been given much time for leave since completing the training, but I’m afraid it is vitally important that we get you out there sooner rather than later. The network is in a bit of a pickle and we think you can help.’

  She was being sent to France. For real. All that play acting, pretending the boys were Gestapo Officers as they interrogated her, learning how to strip and reassemble a Bren, memorising the Morse alphabet. There was always a voice at the back of her head, whispering, this isn’t real, no danger here, it’s all pretend.

  It was unlikely she would die during training, no matter how bloody awful she felt during a six am ten-kilometre run.

  Being sent to France meant putting herself in actual danger. It meant the possibility of her parents receiving another telegram.

  If she was caught they wouldn’t care that she was young, that she was female. She was a spy, and in the real world spies were tortured and executed. This had been drummed into her constantly over the last few months.

  The average lifespan between arrival and capture for a W/T operator in France is six weeks.

  ‘You’re being sent out as pianist for the Sand Dune circuit but it’s more than likely that you’ll need to help with courier work too – they’re a bit short-staffed. You will report to Alex Sylvan.’

  Six weeks. Six weeks. Six weeks. Six weeks.

  One, two, three, four, five, six.

  Forty-two days.

  One thousand and eight hours.

  Funny to think this could be all the time she had left. Even funnier the way she kept nodding, as if this was completely fine with her.

  In Britain, you listened and nodded.

  In France, you tried to survive. Stay alive.

  Six weeks was an average, she might not even last that long.

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  But she was different.

  Clever, above average.

  She would come home.

  There was a car parked outside the farmhouse, a black Citroën. She had heard an engine. God, why hadn’t she acted on it?

  A man dressed in black and a driver sat in the car.

  The soldier pushed her into the back seat, followed in behind. He pushed his pistol into her ribs, handcuffed her.

  Sabine.

  She was Sabine.

  What had the training reports said about her? Was she up to this? Or had they sent her over here with the hope that they’d get a couple of weeks out of her?

  She’d lost count. Had she made it to six?

  At least she’d made it through the training, that was more than some.

  Celia received a telegram about her husband, left and hadn’t come back.

  Doris, ‘dismissed with regret’ after being monitored talking English in her sleep. Too much of a risk, everything had to be done in French, even sleep-talking.

  The others had been sad to see her go until Marièle pointed out it meant they were being monitored while they slept.

  Maybe it was that sort of thinking that had got her this far? What did her brain tell her to do now?

  ‘There’s still time to say no.’

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  ‘I want to go.’

  ‘We would never force someone into going, despite the value we place in your work. It’s a huge risk, you do understand that?’

  Marièle nodded, didn’t ask what had happened to Sand Dune’s previous pianist. Was it someone she’d trained with?

  ‘You will travel by felucca on Sunday evening.’

  ‘Felucca?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he shuffled some papers, ‘I can see that you’re a whizz at parachuting, but I’m afraid a parachute landing isn’t possible at this time. I know you’ll be disappointed, but really how you get there isn’t important. More that you get there and help Sand Dune back up and running again.’

  What had happened to Sand Dune?

  If she asked, she might change her mind about going.

  But I’m Merle, she wanted to say. She felt sick at the thought of going by felucca, it was a bad omen. This was her life they were playing with. They didn’t care if she lived or died, she was just w/t replacement, just like the girl who came after her would be w/t replacement. They didn’t care that if she didn’t parachute in, the whole mission was doomed, jinxed from the start.

  But of course she had to stay quiet. If they knew she had thoughts like that they would stamp her record.

  Not in a fit mental state.

  Flights of fancy equalled no France, and she still wanted to go. She had to go.

  It was stupid of course, he was right, it didn’t matter how she got there. She couldn’t shake it off though, that nagging feeling of doom.

  She looked down, tried to avoid eye contact with the men. Nobody spoke.

  Should she protest?

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois, what is the meaning of this?

  Madame Poirier. That moan she gave out. Worse was the sinking realisation that fear of being shot herself cancelled out some of her grief for Madame. She wasn’t ready to die. She didn’t want to die.

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  ‘Press here, and here.’

  Sabine pressed her finger into the ink pad, then marked her new document with the printed loops and whorls.

  Funny, how similar Sabine’s fingerprints were to Marièle’s. Or was it the other way around?

  Froggy Marie, Froggy Marie. Her name embarrassed her when she was at school. She avoided saying it. Now she was sad to let it go. Even if it was only meant to be temporary.

  Would she ever be Marièle again? Had she lost herself forever to Sabine? Marièle felt like a friend from back home. Someone she used to know. The only part of her they let her keep was the cross from George. It was French, looked authentic. And Marièle�
�s grief, of course, that never left her.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. I am twenty-one. I am blah, blah, blah.

  She was fed up repeating the story over and over and over.

  As her departure date got closer, they played tricks on her, tried to trip her up.

  ‘Marièle, please can you empty out your coat pockets for us.’

  ‘Je suis Sabine.’

  ‘Good girl, Sabine, très bon.’

  She emptied her pockets. They’d given her a French coat to wear, complete with French labels, wanted to double check she hadn’t pocketed anything that would give her away.

  British bus tickets, British money, British cigarettes, British wrappers.

  ‘Now, we’ll swap your documents. You’ll get them back when you return.’

  If she returned.

  -.... / .-- . . -.- ...

  Sabine handed over her identity card, her clothing coupons, her ration book, replaced them with French ones.

  ‘We get to dress you up like a French doll,’ one woman laughed as she fixed Sabine’s head scarf.

  ‘It feels like I’m being dressed down, look at me,’ Sabine replied.

  Frumpy skirt, woollen pullover, flat shoes.

  Lucky for Doris she talked in her sleep, you would have had a fight on your hands, Sabine thought, as they wiped off what little make up she had on.

  One of the men said something in German and the others laughed. Sabine didn’t know much German, but she understood enough to know it was a joke about her appearance. At least that meant they probably wouldn’t rape her. That was the part of the training where nobody had laughed.

  What was her limit? Could she take the pill if she had to?

  ‘This is the bit that’s always a bit sensitive.’

  He held a lipstick in his hand, French branding of course. The attention to detail was astonishing. Sabine doubted that your average German soldier would recognise the name and style of a French lippy, but she didn’t want to end up dead over something so trivial.

  ‘Sensitive?’

  ‘This isn’t just a lipstick.’

  ‘Ahh, I see, another one of your gadgets. What’s this one, a flick knife, a compass, a machine gun?’

  He didn’t smile, looked at her with that same apologetic expression that people had worn after George. He clicked something with his fingernail, unhinged the bottom of the lipstick. A small, translucent pill fell out onto the palm of his hand.