‘Jer m’apple Joe,’ he said, elaborately pointing at his chest for further clarification of his identity. ‘That means my name is Joe.’ He brought his mouth to her ear. ‘I can teach you some more French back at mine if you want.’ And he flicked her earlobe with his tongue.
Enough was enough. Juliet stood up and lowered her face to inches from his. In a voice loud enough for the entire pub to hear, she let rip, ‘Généralement, les gens qui savent peu parlent beaucoup, et les gens qui savent beaucoup, parlent peu. Vous, monsieur, vous parlez beaucoup. A cet égard, je voudrais vous assurer Monsieur, que vous me dégoutez. Il est bien clair que vous êtes bête comme vos pieds, vous êtes un imbécile. Ecoutez-moi bien, je ne sortirai jamais avec un homme de votre espèce, je préfère mourir!’
Everyone stared at this beautiful blonde girl with the flashing green eyes pouring forth in flawless French. Smiling sweetly at his dumbfounded expression, she then slowly emptied what was left of his beer over his head. As the amber liquid dripped from his hair, nose and chin onto his uniform, the girls and squaddies alike descended into fits of hysterics. Nodding her acceptance at their raucous applause, Juliet stood up and walked to the ladies.
THREE DAYS AFTER THE events in the pub, a man appeared unexpectedly at Auntie Kitty’s house asking if Juliet was interested in a possible job with the Home Office. He said his name was Mr Jones, and he was very vague about why he’d called to her at home to offer her employment. She got the impression the job was a clerical one since he asked her if she could type or take shorthand. Though she had learned at school, she had never paid much attention to it, so she told him she had a little experience but not enough to be of any use. He said she’d soon pick it up. Over a cup of tea in Auntie Kitty’s front room, he asked about her background and seemed very interested to know she came from Dunderrig and that her father was the local doctor who had been decorated in the last war. He was even interested to hear about Solange and how she had taught Juliet her perfect French.
After that preliminary conversation, he had asked her to present herself at an address in the city centre for further discussions on the subject of her possible employment. Writing down the date and time of her interview, he left.
So here she was. A woman seated at a desk surrounded by panels of opaque glass had checked her name against a list. Gazing impassively at her through horn-rimmed spectacles, she had asked her to take a seat.
While she waited, Juliet reread the latest letter from Solange.
Ma chère Juliet,
I am going to write in English because even though I speak this language every day now, still I cannot write it so very well so please, I must practice on you. Of course, when we speak, it will always be in French!
I am so sad to hear about Ewan being posted to England, but in a war, nobody’s life is his own. Soldiers must do what they are told and go where they are instructed to go. I do not show your letters to anyone else and nobody opens my post but me, so it is quite safe for you to write what you wish, especially in French. I am glad that you have no regrets, that you took my advice, I think I understand what it is that you mean.
So what now, my darling? Will you come home to us? We miss you so much.
James is at home for a few weeks and his girlfriend Ingrid is visiting. She is very pretty and she is German. We do not hold that against her though. Well, perhaps a little (just joking) but this mess is not her fault. Mrs Canty calls her In-gridge; it reminds me of all the years she called me So-long! She seems nice, and James is very in love with her (I don’t think that is right – very in love?) anyway he loves her. I don’t know how she feels about him; she is very independent and seems to be the commander of that relationship. I hope she doesn’t break his heart. She doesn’t speak very much about herself. Her father is in business in Germany, but she doesn’t say anything about the war or anything like that. I do like her, I think.
Your Papa is well, very busy as usual. I told him he should take a holiday. Maybe go to Belfast to see you, but he says he has nobody to take over the surgery. He would love so much to see you though, he really does miss you so much. It has been a whole year since you were home. You know he is not good at saying how he feels, but he does tell me how lonely Dunderrig is without you. James is in Dublin a lot these days, more now that he is seeing Ingrid. I’m not sure how they met, through an old school friend, I think. He said he was hoping you might travel down to Dublin to meet them soon. If so, perhaps I could convince your father to make the trip too, and we could all meet up. I am going to visit my friend (I can see your face – yes, that friend!) next week, but that will just be for a day or two. I am celebrating my birthday there; imagine, I am an old lady now, forty-eight years old!
Mrs Canty is here in the kitchen as I write, and she says to tell you to be sure to eat properly and don’t be coming home ‘like a pull through for a rifle’. I don’t know what that is, but I am being dictated to here. I think she means don’t get too thin.
I won’t say do not worry about Ewan, or that I am sure nothing bad will happen to him. I am not at all sure of that, and I have never lied to you, my sweet Juliet. I will pray to God, if there is a God, I am not sure of that either, that he will be safe, and he will return to you. But in the meantime, carpe diem, my love. Do not stop your life, live it.
Goodbye for now, my brave sweet girl,
I love you,
Solange.
Juliet folded the letter and placed it in her bag as she sat and waited on the long wooden bench. There were three doors on the corridor, each with opaque glass panels so it was impossible to tell what was going on inside. From the outside, it had looked like every other office building. There had been an old brass plaque on the wall, tarnished with age, saying Bell & Co. Eventually, she looked up as a middle-aged woman addressed her in clipped tones, ‘Miss Juliet Buckley?’
The woman was dressed in a grey suit and indicated Juliet should follow her. Walking obediently behind her through the maze of corridors, she noted how nondescript everything was, including her guide. They passed down a flight of stairs and along several identical hallways – all painted in a dull beige colour – before eventually stopping at a door exactly like all the rest. The woman opened the door to reveal a sparsely decorated office, which smelled musty. Dust mites danced in the shaft of sunlight that came in through the high windows. The floor was covered in brown linoleum, and the walls were painted the same beige as the rest of the building. There was nothing on the walls and no furniture except for a large battered desk with a utilitarian chair on either side.
‘Please take a seat.’ She spoke briskly, indicating the smaller of the two chairs. ‘Someone will be with you shortly.’
While Juliet waited, she considered that perhaps she was making a huge mistake. The more she thought about the manner in which she had been approached, the more suspicious it seemed. The whole thing was most peculiar. Still, she was intrigued, and it was something to do. Perhaps, joining up in some capacity – even as a clerical worker in an office – might help to pass the days. If she was honest, her main motivation was finding a way of feeling close to Ewan. At least if they were both in the services, then maybe there was a chance that they could meet up, somewhere, sometime. A foolish hope probably. There were millions of servicemen and women all over the world hoping the same thing, and she doubted very much that the British Military took romance into the equation when arranging postings. Still, it was a preferable option to returning to Dunderrig and waiting for God knows how long. At least here, she felt part of it, as if she and Ewan were on the same side.
If she went home, she didn’t know how she would cope with listening to how wonderful Dev was for keeping Ireland neutral. She doubted if she could keep her opinions to herself.
‘Ah, Miss Buckley, thank you for coming. I trust you found us easily enough?’ The small rotund man with a florid complexion moved with surprising speed across the room and eagerly pumped her hand. His tweed suit was tight
on his shoulders and his shoes clicked peculiarly.
‘Em, yes, thank you,’ Juliet stammered. She had been so deep in thought that his arrival had caught her off guard. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. He was almost entirely bald except for a rim of brown hair that circled his head, rather like a monk. As he sat opposite her, her eyes were drawn to the vivid mustard colour of his shirt and his red check tie. This man has no wife, she decided. No woman would let her husband out dressed so oddly.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asked brightly, and without giving her a chance to reply, he continued, ‘You are from Southern Ireland, I take it? Yes. Cork? Yes. Fine. And at what standard would you say you speak French?’
His pale grey eyes penetrated hers. His face was strangely still despite the rather frantic pace of his delivery. He really was most disconcerting. Surely he knew the answers to all of these questions already. She’d told Mr Jones everything when he came to Auntie Kitty’s house.
‘I think I’m fluent, though I’ve never actually been to France.’ She knew her tone was a little resentful. She was not at all sure that she wanted to go into any more detail with him. She didn’t even know his name, yet he just rattled off questions to her as if he had an absolute right to know everything about her.
‘Fluent. Hmm. We shall see.’ Scribbling on a notepad, he went on. ‘Your father is Dr Richard Buckley of the Royal Army Medical Corps, decorated for his services in the last war, is that correct?’
‘Yes. My father served in France as a doctor.’ Juliet answered as shortly as she dared. Though this man looked rather comedic, there was something deadly serious about him. It was an odd combination, and it made her feel very uncomfortable. He stopped writing and scrutinised her. She was used to the admiring glances of men but this was different, it was as if he were assessing her, judging. His gaze was neither appreciative nor lewd – he was simply gathering information.
She had used precious ration coupons to buy Miners liquid foundation, her lips were reddened by cochineal from the larder, as lipstick was almost impossible to get, and she had learned from the Wrens how to make mascara from burned coke. Rationing had made the women of Belfast very resourceful. The result was striking, and she knew it. Her blond hair was neatly pinned back from her face with tendrils of curls escaping from her French plait. Her outfit, a bottle-green skirt and jacket with a buttermilk blouse beneath, was an old one of Auntie Kitty’s, which she had shortened and adjusted using a Vogue pattern. It was an aspect of war that caused Juliet great joy that hemlines were getting shorter and clothes getting more figure-hugging. It was, of course, because of the severe shortage of virtually everything, but she loved experimenting with fashion, and the wartime deprivations made almost everything acceptable.
‘And your mother? Is she Irish also?’ the man continued, having fully appraised her face and figure.
‘Yes, she is. We are estranged, however.’ Juliet didn’t want to discuss Edith with anyone, least of all this peculiar man.
‘Ah, yes. She is remarried in Dublin, I understand?’
Juliet was nonplussed. How on earth did he know that? ‘Yes. I believe so.’
‘Now, you were reared by your father and a French woman. Please tell me about her.’ Again, he fixed her with the bland stare and the soulless grey eyes.
‘My father’s friend’s widow, Solange Allingham, was left homeless and without a family after the last war. My father offered her a home with us. She was our nanny, my brother’s and mine, but she was, is, more than that. She is more like our mother.’
‘And where in France is she from?’ Returning to his scribbled notes.
‘Amiens. She lived in the city and worked as a nurse in the Hôpital Saint Germain. As did my father and Solange’s late husband, Jeremy.’
‘And it was from her that you learned to speak French?’
‘Yes. Solange always spoke to my brother and me in French, since we were babies.’
Changing the subject he went on, ‘And you had a relationship with a member of the RAF, a Flight Lieutenant Ewan McCrae, which is now ended?’
‘He’s been posted elsewhere, but we hope to marry when the war is over.’ The pain of Ewan’s departure was still raw.
‘Really? I see.’ His tone indicated that such an outcome was unlikely to say the least. ‘How do your family feel about you living here in Belfast? Would they not rather you were safe in Southern Ireland?’
Juliet bristled. It was the way he said the word ‘safe’ as if the Irish were in some way shirking their responsibility.
‘I am staying with my elderly aunt as her companion. They are happy someone is taking care of her.’
‘And how do they feel about the war effort? About you offering your services, should you be deemed acceptable.’
The tone was pleasant enough, but Juliet could feel the familiar temper rising up within her. Who did this man think he was? Summoning her here without a word of explanation and then asking her questions about her family, about Edith and Ewan? How dare he?
‘Well, to the best of my knowledge I have not offered my services,’ she said frostily. ‘I am an Irish citizen, and we are a neutral country, so I think you are getting ahead of yourself if I may say so. I have not agreed to help you in any capacity. So whether you deem me acceptable or not at this juncture is beside the point.’
She removed her gloves from her bag and began to put them on. She wasn’t going to listen to this for another minute. She had not felt the same indignation since she was at school, being interrogated by the nuns for playing jazz music on the school piano. She was an adult and in no way answerable to this insufferable little man, who didn’t even have the decency to introduce himself properly or explain what on earth she was doing here.
Standing up to leave, she said, ‘I don’t feel there is anything further to discuss. Good day to you.’
The man seemed unperturbed and remained seated. Sitting back in his chair, he ran his hand over his shiny bald head. Eventually, as she reached for the door handle, he spoke.
‘Please forgive me if my questions seem intrusive, Miss Buckley, but it is vital that we know all about you if you are to be offered a position with us. The fact that you came here today suggests you do have an interest in joining the war effort and if that has changed, then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
She waited, still with her hand on the door.
He went on. ‘However, I suspect you have a unique set of skills that, with the appropriate training, may make your contribution to the defeat of Hitler very important indeed. If you would like to hear more, please have a seat.’
Juliet’s mind was racing. Her anger subsided and was replaced with curiosity.
‘What do you mean by a unique set of skills? I don’t have any qualifications.’
‘Not traditional skills, that is true. Simply put, Miss Buckley, Mr Churchill has instructed a specific department within the defence forces to, shall we say, use slightly more creative methods of gaining the upper hand over the enemy. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that at this stage but suffice to say you might just be the sort of thing he had in mind. Your ability to converse fluently in French could be very useful, and I suspect that you can do that.’ Gone was all trace of the efficient arrogance. ‘Britain is facing an occupied continent. Despite the success of our military response, there is a very real danger of occupation on the island itself, possibly even here in Ireland. With that in mind, it is imperative that we do everything possible to disrupt Hitler’s plans. In order to do that effectively, we must know what those plans are. That’s how I imagine you come in.’
He stopped and waited for her reaction.
Juliet struggled to process what he was telling her. Long seconds passed.
‘You want me to be a spy?’
Smiling a genuine smile for the first time since they’d met, the man sat back in his chair and said, ‘Precisely.’
; Chapter 27
James sat quietly at the dinner party. His mother had gone to such trouble to organise an elegant and elaborate dinner to celebrate his and Ingrid’s return from West Cork, but the food tasted like sawdust, and he felt wretched. No one would have guessed from the light-hearted chat and clinking of glasses going on around him that these were Germans, at war with the entire world. Fortunately, most of the animated banter was in German, a language of which he had no knowledge – at least that meant he wasn’t expected to join in.
Ingrid was sitting across from him, deep in conversation with Francis Stuart, the Irish writer who seemed to travel to and from Germany with impunity. James had been baffled at how all those in his mother’s circle seemed to be able to travel effortlessly when such restrictions were in place but when he’d questioned her, she had simply shrugged and said if one had the right connections than anything was possible.
At intervals, loud guffaws of laughter emanated from the other side of the long dining table. Ingrid was flirting outrageously with Stuart and James’s heart wrenched. He was old enough to be her father. Stuart’s wife, Iseult Gonne, seated at the end, seemed oblivious to her husband’s rakish behaviour. There was something otherworldly about her. James had been mesmerised by the ethereal Iseult when he first met her and as he looked at her now, she seemed a million miles away from the dining room. James had read that Isuelt had been conceived in the mausoleum of her dead little brother. Maud Gonne, Iseult’s mother, was the muse of Yeats who had died in France in 1939, and apparently the poet had proposed to both mother and daughter. He remembered Mrs Canty saying how all those gentry Protestants had a bit of a want in them, too closely bred in her opinion. He smiled at the thought of the old housekeeper, and it struck James once more how strange life was. He’d read Yeats at school and now here he was having dinner with some of his closest associates.
When Edith first reappeared in his life, he had been impressed by her cosmopolitan circle of friends and associates. She knew a lot of people in Dublin’s artistic scene, from writers to poets and painters. Some contacts were her father’s but many more were Otto’s, which James found perplexing. How would a German businessman have such a varied circle of influential friends?
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 21