The House of Flowers

by Charlotte Bingham

  Nor could she remember dreaming. In fact as she sat up slowly, staring out through the window and listening to the birdsong that now seemed to fill the woodlands, she tried as hard as she could to recall some sort of image or memory from her sleep, so sure was she that she had in fact dreamed. But none was forthcoming.

  Yet she was certain that Eugene was safe.

  How she knew this she had absolutely no idea, since the more she concentrated the more she seemed unable to retrieve anything from her subconscious memory. But the fact was etched firmly in her mind. Eugene was alive and on his way back to her. That much was certain. It wasn’t a belief, nor a hope – it was an absolute conviction.

  She sat there in the shadows for a long time, at ease for the first time in days. Finally she closed her eyes, breathed in deeply and called his name out silently in her mind, time and time again.

  Crouched under a heavy tarpaulin on a heaving fishing boat headed south across the Mediterranean from Sicily to Malta, Eugene felt far from safe. There was still this last leg of his dangerous journey to be safely negotiated, so rather than think of what might be were he to survive, he simply concentrated on staying alive. Gianni, Lucia and he now lay hidden on board a trawler to which they had been transferred from the tiny fishing smack the Resistance had organised to transport them away from a half-hidden cove on the Pássero coastline, hopefully on their way back to Valletta and safety.

  The Maltese crew had hidden the three of them – much to Lucia’s disgust – in empty crates stinking of fish which they then covered with other crates full of fresh fish. They draped their cargo under huge, heavy oilcloths in the prow of the boat before turning round to head back to their beleagured island, showing no lights and sailing the craft by a mixture of ancient nautical skills and sheer derring-do.

  On arrival and disembarkation in Malta, he and Gianni were at once whisked off to a safe house high in the hills and away from the beleaguered port of Valletta. Lucia bid them a fond and tearful farewell before being escorted away by a young fisherman who could not believe his luck when she gratefully accepted his offer of a hot bath and a change of clothes to be borrowed from his sister.

  ‘You will come and see me in Naples!’ she called after the departing Eugene. ‘After the stinking war is finished!’

  ‘I shall, I shall!’ Eugene shouted back, with all fingers tightly crossed. ‘You are a magnificent woman. And a very brave one too!’

  ‘You will not go, of course,’ Gianni sighed as the van taking them to their safe house chugged up the hillside.

  ‘Of course I won’t.’ Eugene smiled in return. ‘But you will.’

  For some reason Gianni found this hilarious, and slapped Eugene on the knee in delight.

  ‘What’s so funny, Gianni?’ Eugene wondered, usually the first to see the humour of any situation.

  ‘Nothing is funny, my friend!’ Gianni replied, shaking his head. ‘Not with a mother like mine!’

  Eugene smiled back, wondering how it was that a man as brave and as resolute as Gianni could deny himself the pleasure of paying a visit to the luscious Lucia for fear of a smack round the ears from his mamma.

  Kate tried to tell Poppy of the strange sensations she had experienced at the House of Flowers when she called there on the morning that Eugene landed safely in Valletta.

  ‘It was this odd feeling of assurance. Of certainty if you like. And the more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I wasn’t dreaming.’

  ‘If you weren’t dreaming,’ Poppy wondered, ‘then what?’

  ‘I don’t know, Poppy. I really don’t know.’ Kate sighed and shook her head. ‘Yet I must have been asleep because it was suddenly so much later in the day. A good two hours or so, judging from the sun. I know this sounds silly, but I had the sort of feeling that I wasn’t there. Or rather that I hadn’t been there – not during the time I was meant to be asleep.’

  ‘I’m sure you were, Kate.’ Poppy smiled. ‘I must tell you, it’s that sort of place. I often find myself suddenly dropping off for no reason at all, then waking up just as suddenly a couple of hours later.’

  ‘Do you dream during those times?’

  ‘I really can’t say. I never seem to be able to manage to remember what I’ve dreamed.’

  ‘I had this feeling I’d been in another place. Another world almost. Or – better – another time.’

  ‘Old houses are funny places. They seem to retain something of the past, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe that’s what it is, Poppy. Or maybe your lovely home has just got magic.’ Kate smiled and shrugged as they climbed the stairs of the great house on their way to work. When they reached the top, they went their separate ways, Kate to her office and Poppy in to see Major Folkestone.

  But when she was invited by Miss Budge to go into the inner office, Poppy was surprised to find the major in the company of Jack Ward.

  He was standing with his back to her, staring out of the main window, smoking his favourite briar pipe thoughtfully, legs slightly apart and hands clasped behind him. After the greetings were over, Jack Ward simply nodding his acknowledgement without turning round, Major Folkestone invited Poppy to sit down opposite him.

  ‘I’ll come to the point,’ he said. ‘Straight to the point, in fact. We need to talk to you about you and your husband.’

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’ Poppy enquired. ‘Nothing’s happened to Scott, has it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jack said from the window, staring out at something in the far distance. ‘Other than him getting married.’

  ‘I understood there were no objections on that score, sir.’

  ‘There weren’t,’ Jack replied. ‘Still aren’t. But there are reservations now, I’m afraid.’

  Poppy frowned at Anthony, hopeful of some explanation.

  ‘It’s rather put the kibosh on any further work in the field,’ Anthony explained. ‘At least as far as you and Scott go.’

  ‘I thought you were quite happy with us as a team, sir.’

  ‘Absolutely. You and Scott work very well together,’ Anthony replied carefully, holding a freshly sharpened pencil between his two index fingers. ‘You’re absolutely first rate as a team.’

  ‘Were,’ Jack said. ‘You were absolutely first rate as a team.’

  ‘We can’t send you out in the field together any more,’ Anthony continued with a glance at his superior, who was still staring out of the window. ‘In circumstances such as these, we do not use married agents, or even agents who are emotionally involved with one another.’

  ‘I see, sir, of course,’ Poppy said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘That is why we didn’t send you off together on the mission your husband has been sent on,’ Jack said, turning round at last and looking at Poppy over his spectacles. ‘It wouldn’t have been sensible to put a couple of agents into the field who have such a close personal affiliation. Your feelings for each other would obviously affect your mutual judgement.’

  ‘In no way does this affect the perception we have of the two of you individually,’ Anthony interposed hurriedly, seeing the look of obvious disappointment in Poppy’s eyes.

  ‘Of course not,’ Jack agreed, relighting his pipe. ‘It isn’t just for our sake either. It’s for your own good. You know as well as I do – you drop your guard for one moment – just one . . .’ He looked up again at Poppy over the flame of his match. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, young lady.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Will that be all?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Anthony said, consulting the file on his desk. ‘We’re as anxious to get you back into play, as it were, as you are. So you’re to go along now to see Miss Lavington who will go through your new briefing with you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Poppy replied, preparing to leave. ‘Thank you for letting me know about Scott and me.’

  Once she had left the room Jack turned to Anthony Folkestone.

  ‘God help young Scott if she ever finds out who he has been dropped into
France with.’

  ‘I don’t think it would worry young Poppy, sir. Poppy Tetherington isn’t that sort of girl.’

  ‘Poppy Meynell, you mean,’ Jack muttered. ‘And as for her not worrying about it, I wouldn’t put money on it, Tony. Not if I were you.’

  Jack turned back to stare out of the window. Anthony Folkestone was a first rate officer in every way. But one thing he obviously didn’t know much about was women.

  Chapter Four

  Poppy stood in front of Cissie Lavington’s desk, having politely refused the offer of a seat. She had been told during her training that far from putting you on an equal status during an interview, sitting down more often than not put you at a disadvantage, particularly since the chair offered to the interviewee was generally and deliberately lower than the chair of the interviewer. So she had remained politely at ease in front of her superior’s desk until she heard what was to be on offer.

  ‘What you’re really saying, then, Miss Lavington,’ Poppy recapped, ‘is that Scott and I should have waited to get married.’

  ‘Entirely your own business, my dear,’ Cissie replied. ‘What I’m saying is, if you wanted to go on working as a team—’

  ‘We should have waited to get married.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can say on the matter, doncher know,’ Cissie observed, lighting a fresh cigarette. ‘Course, one’s sorry it’s happened because you were a dashed good duo – but I’m sure you don’t really regret that you’re married. Not to such a nice chap as Scott Meynell. However, dare say you don’t like to be idle, so we’d best find you something interesting, eh?’

  ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that. I don’t want to sit around Eden twiddling my thumbs.’

  ‘Or filing files, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Cissie glanced up at Poppy, then returned to consulting the papers on her desk.

  ‘Might have to for a while, just as a stopgap, you see,’ she muttered, having reread the salient memos. ‘It appears C Section could use you.’

  ‘C Section? Isn’t that rather like being buried alive?’

  ‘A bit.’ Cissie chuckled. ‘Except I can’t see anyone burying you alive. It would only be for a short while. Till they come up with something a little more intoxicatin’, doncher know. Trouble is they can’t use you in London in case anyone would recognise you after your last op. Shame, but there it is – common sense has to prevail, and you made a pretty distinct mark during the Churchill business. Then of course, now you’re hitched—’ Cissie stopped, took a long drag on her cigarette and eyed Poppy with her one good eye. ‘There’s always this thing of gels getting pregnant, do you see. Married gels, of course.’

  ‘Scott and I only had one night together.’

  ‘All it took my parents,’ Cissie remarked, tapping her ash into her tin wastebasket. ‘Point is, these things happen, and if an agent gets preggers, bye-bye agent.’

  ‘So it really wasn’t a good idea,’ Poppy concluded. ‘Us getting married. Does this mean I’ll be deskbound for the rest of the war?’

  ‘Not necessarily, me dear,’ Cissie replied. ‘Certainly not if I can help it. You’re far too good an agent to fester away in C Section. Don’t you worry – I won’t let it go.’

  After an interview with the woman in charge of C Section, Poppy wandered back through the woods to her house. The weather had suddenly changed, the promise of spring being replaced by a reminder of winter as the wind shifted, bringing snow showers in from the east. As soon as she got home, she lit the fire and, pulling her chair round in front of it, sat staring into the pile of burning logs as she tried to sort herself out.

  First she wondered when she would see her beloved Scott again, and then if she would ever in fact do so. Since being married, she had found herself thinking more and more about the chances of something happening to either Scott or herself, most particularly Scott. Somehow she felt that as long as they were together they would be able to protect each other, just as they had done on their first famous mission. Prodding the logs into brighter life with a long poker, she remembered how clever Scott had been with his feints and his disguises, how seemingly fearless he was. Then, remembering so much of his careless courage, her spirits sank, knowing that his tremendous nerve and dash would always lessen the likelihood of her ever seeing him again. Scott never played safe and for that very reason he might never be safe.

  Realising more clearly than ever before how easy it would be to lose him, Poppy’s feelings turned from wistfulness to sudden anger. She found herself wishing to God she had never married him, because by doing so she seemed to have killed for ever the chance of their being sent out on an assignment together. Because they were married her Section would keep choosing someone else instead of her. They might even send other young, unmarried women out with him, and as she realised this for the first time her spirits sank to zero. She had imagined almost every kind of exigency in war, but not exclusion from the work they both knew to be vital. She knew it had been wrong to agree to marry him; she should have refused so that they could stay together as agents. They could have been lovers without ever marrying, and as long as they had kept their affair secret, as long as the Colonel and Major Folkestone had not been aware of their intimacy, they could have waited till after the war was over to get married. Marriage was only a certificate, Poppy told herself. People could still be married without any ceremony, civil or religious. So damn marriage – damn marriage, damn weddings, most of all damn Scott for insisting on marrying her in the first place. She should have refused, made him wait – and by doing so stayed where she would be most needed, namely by his side, so that together they could accomplish something, they could help defeat Hitler and win the war.

  After which another thought occurred to her, one that gave her a sudden feeling of hope. Perhaps Scott had insisted on marrying her in order to keep her out of the firing line. Maybe he loved her that much – enough to want to make sure that her life was out of immediate danger.

  She pushed her chair back from the fire, realising that while lost in her thoughts she had slowly begun to roast. Rising, she collapsed on to the sofa away from the fire and tried to take fresh stock and make sense of the confusion of thoughts running through her head.

  A small table to the side of the sofa held a pretty mahogany box which Poppy had not yet opened. Idly, she reached out and lifted the lid. There was still some sewing in it, a half-finished tapestry cushion with still loaded needle stuck neatly in one side, the piece itself folded carefully so as not to crease the work. She picked it up and looked at it, seeing a picture of a spaniel. For some reason she showed it to George who was sitting patient as ever by her feet.

  ‘Look, George,’ she told him, sounding ridiculous even to herself. ‘A little spaniel.’

  She looked into the box once again. Originally the piece was obviously not intended to be a sewing box, for although it was stacked with skeins of silk and wool its sides were obviously made to hold wine bottles, or perhaps tea caddies. She removed the skeins and looked below them, and noticed something else. Reaching down she picked the object out with a sense of sudden excitement.

  ‘There’s something else here too, George,’ she muttered to the dog. ‘A book. No – no, it’s a diary of some sort. A journal.’

  Poppy sat back and began to read. As she read she got the oddest feeling that somehow she knew the writer, so familiar was the voice coming off the pages, as if she was actually eavesdropping on someone still alive rather than a woman who had lived over a century before.

  First the writer described her feelings of love for the younger son of the Eden estate – how he had ridden by her father’s cottage door, stopped to talk to them all, and caught her eye. Then she told how he had returned to the house by invitation, and taken tea with them. How her mother had embarrassed her profoundly by remarking on his having asked to be allowed to return yet again, and saying it was perfectly apparent that he was taken with the youngest of her daughter
s; and how it seemed no time at all before they were married.

  And so we are married, against the wishes of his mother, but with the final blessing of his father, who is a dear. His mother does not approve of me because I am from a different background, but has told Edward that she will not stand in his way, and that at least I have grown up on the estate! Edward says she will come round to the idea, particularly once we have children, and I am sure he is right. She sent her maid to fill the house with flowers on our return, so many of them that Edward has renamed the old place the House of Flowers and intends to carve a stone above the door saying as much. My dear husband has bought me a fine new mare, so that we can ride out together of a morning. Up every day, before even the light, and my heart pounds with excitement at the idea that Pretty Lady is being got ready for me! After all the hirelings I have ridden the idea that I have a mount of my own is truly wondrous. The estate is quite beautiful in the early morning light, and sometimes we stop by Father’s cottage, and Mother and he insist we sit down to breakfast with them. The lakes are Arthurian in their beauty in the early morning. The mist rises from them in such a mysterious way that I almost think I can see the king and his knights rowing towards me, and certainly I would not be surprised, so romantic is the light, so ethereal the feeling of the estate at that hour, with the trees dripping quietly into the waters, and only the sound of water fowl moving in the reeds.

  Poppy put the book down, and turned, as George ran from beside her feet, barking at the sound of knocking at the front door, disturbing the gentle whispers inside the house, the hissing of the fire, the movement of the flames in the fireplace.

  Poppy picked up the long-haired dachshund, and went to the front door. She peered out. There was no one there. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere. She closed the door again, guiltily returning the journal to its original hiding place among the skeins of wool in the mahogany box.

  In spite of Kate’s assurance regarding his safety, Eugene was still a long way from home. Due to the increasingly heavy bombardment of Malta he had been unable to get an airlift out of the tiny island, forced to travel by sea instead, as far as the port of Marseille where he had managed to collect a new set of papers, and begun the long haul of getting himself from the south to the north of France where he hoped by some miracle to utilise one of the tried and true escape routes. On his travels he learned two things – first that France is a very large country, particularly when one has no transport of one’s own and is forced to rely on the goodwill of farmers and the like when cadging lifts in hay wagons and market lorries, and second that if he was given the opportunity to come back in another life as someone else, that someone else would definitely not be a plumber.