At 3:45 a.m., fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, Juliet arrived at Dunham House.
The side door opened as she approached. ‘Bravo, Marine. Tout s’est bien passé?’ The officer in command spoke softly so as not to wake the whole house. Helping her out of her backpack and flying suit, he noticed she winced as she struggled to remove the tight-fitting suit.
‘Etes-vous blessée?’ he asked. She’d seen him around but as was usual, she didn’t know his name.
‘I think I bruised my hip on landing,’ she replied in French, thinking how the months of training and speaking so little had made her so much more economical with words. The old Juliet would have been talking ceaselessly after such an ordeal, outlining and perhaps embellishing the tale of woe slightly. Living the life of a trainee saboteur had made her reticent and cautious, even when there was no danger as yet. She followed the man into the basement kitchen. There was a single pot on the stove being kept warm by a tiny flame.
‘Best get it looked at. Hold on, I’ll get someone. In the meantime, there’s soup in the pot. Help yourself.’
Juliet was starving. She filled a bowl of soup and sat painfully at the table to eat it. It was watery and fairly tasteless, and she felt a pang of loneliness for the warm, welcoming kitchen at Dunderrig, with Mrs Canty’s delicious home-made soup made from the bones of the previous day’s joint and fresh vegetables dug by Eddie each day. She regularly thought about that smell of it and watching Mrs Canty swirling fresh cream on top and buttering slices of soda bread, fresh from the oven. She’d had nothing but awful margarine since she arrived in England and bread that tasted like sawdust. This soup was more like the water used to boil vegetables, only without the vegetables. The rationing and the terrible quality of the food they did have was something Juliet found hard to endure. She was used to the finest of fresh produce, cooked to perfection. At night in her sleep, she dreamed of Mrs Canty’s floury mashed potatoes with a succulent roast, followed by apple tarts with pastry that melted on your tongue, made with the fruit from the gnarled old tree in the courtyard. Each morning as she scraped white margarine on thin slices of bread and drank the coloured water they called tea, she felt a pang for the sweet blackberry jam she loved, or the honey and brown sugar she poured liberally on her porridge every morning at home. Sugar was so rationed here, she couldn’t remember the last time she had tasted something sweet. How she would love to be in the big warm kitchen of Dunderrig now, being minded by Solange and Mrs Canty while Daddy gave her something to help the pain in her hip. She was exhausted and sore, and she would give anything to be at home. Tears of loneliness and self-pity threatened to spill as she ate the horrible soup.
The officer came back with a sleepy-looking bear of a man. He was huge and the hairiest person she’d ever seen. He had an enormous reddish-grey beard and a shock of grey hair on his head. He was over six feet tall and must have weighed eighteen stone.
‘Now so, what did you do to yourself?’ he asked in the soft accent of West Cork. Hearing such a familiar accent brought further tears to Juliet’s eyes. ‘You’d better come with me, and we’ll have a look at you.’
Following him into a room near the kitchen, she realised it had been turned into a makeshift surgery. It smelled so familiar, just like Daddy’s surgery at home. Homesickness threatened to overcome her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For just a moment, she was in Dunderrig and none of this was happening.
‘Now so, your man outside said you hurt your hip. I suppose if you go throwing yourself out of aeroplanes in the middle of the night, you’ll have that.’ He smiled and patted her on the back. ‘I’m Dr McCarthy, but everyone just calls me Mac. And who are you?’
Juliet looked at this kind man whose kind gruff manner reminded her of Eddie Canty. He probably even knew Daddy, but she had learned her lesson. It would have been lovely to tell him all about Dunderrig, that her father was a doctor too, about James and Solange and how she got to be here, it would have made them all feel a tiny bit closer, but she knew she couldn’t.
‘Marine,’ she replied.
‘Right-o, Marine,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Let’s have a look at this hip so, will we?’
There was the beginning of a large bruise on her hip bone. Gently he touched the area to ensure there was nothing broken. Juliet tried not to cry out as he pressed down on the point where she had landed. Tears came to her eyes, but she gritted her teeth.
‘You gave yourself a nasty auld knock there then, but nothing’s broken. ’Twill be very sore for a few days, though. I’ll give you a few tablets to help you sleep. Rub this cream on it tonight and again in the morning, it’ll bring down the swelling. Sure you’ll be better before you’re twice married.’ He winked at her.
She smiled back. That’s what Daddy always said to her and James when they got cuts and bruises as children.
‘I don’t want you doing anything much for a few days, do you hear me? Give that a chance to mend. Sure you could do with a rest anyhow – read a book, maybe?’ He raised his enormous bushy eyebrows.
‘I will. Thank you,’ she answered, still in French. It was the first time since she’d arrived in England that she felt like she was a real person and not just a project to be turned into something.
‘Tá fáilte romhat, you’re welcome.’ he replied. She did not respond but that simple phrase in Irish made her feel a little less miserable.
‘ENTREZ,’ SHE CALLED AS she woke to the gentle knock on the bedroom door. Mrs Carnegie entered carrying a tray with tea and toast. A funny, busy Scots woman, she was the housekeeper at Dunham and seemed to run the whole place effortlessly, despite all its comings and goings. Her French was perfect though heavily accented with the long vowels of her native Argyle. She was kind to everyone, but she always had a special word for Juliet, who suspected that Mrs Carnegie was much more than just the housekeeper. She seemed to know everything about each one of the students that came to the house, despite the fact that they never discussed their personal lives. She referred once, while she and Juliet were alone in the kitchen, to Scotsmen making great husbands and as she said it, she gave Juliet a huge conspiratorial wink.
As she struggled to sit up, she winced.
‘Now then, you are to rest in bed today, doctor’s orders. I’ve brought you some writing paper also. Perhaps you would like to send a few letters. Needless to mention, they must be short and will be subject to the censor, so nothing specific, but if you’d like to let your family and your young man know you are all right, I’ll see they get posted for you. I’ll be back at lunchtime.’
She was brusque but gentle, and Juliet’s heart soared at having permission to write home and to Ewan.
‘You should continue to use the base at Brighton as your address,’ Mrs Carnegie added as she straightened Juliet’s bed clothes before she left. ‘And if possible, we will try to have any replies forwarded to you from there.’ She left, with a kind smile.
Happily, Juliet munched her toast, though the scrape of margarine on the gritty bread bore no resemblance whatsoever to the toast Mrs Canty made, dripping with real salty butter and chunky home-made marmalade. For the first time in ages, she felt content. Her hip hurt a lot, but it was worth the pain to get a day off and lie in bed. The training was so hard and when she finally achieved whatever awful task they set her, there wasn’t a word of thanks or praise, just another horrible thing to have to do. The funny thing was, though, that the tougher the task, the more determined she became to succeed.
She finished her breakfast and used the tray to lean on to write. The thin airmail paper Mrs Carnegie had given her tore easily, so she had to be careful.
Dear Daddy, Solange, James, Eddie, and Mrs Canty,
I can only write one letter so you’ll have to share! I’m fine and getting on well here. The food is horrible mostly, nothing like yours, Mrs C, and the work is exhausting, but I’m coping. I miss you all very, very much but please don’t worry about me. I’m doing my bit
to keep us all safe. I know you are cross with me, Daddy, but I’m doing something worthwhile, and I want you to be proud of me. Solange is taking care of everyone I know, so you are all fine I hope. I bet Dunderrig is looking beautiful now, it always does in autumn. James, I hope you’re painting and still happy with Ingrid; don’t get married without me! Solange, if a gorgeous Scotsman shows up looking for me, feed him and keep him there. Mrs C., I dream of your soda bread and roast leg of lamb. Eddie, I’m using lots of things you taught me. Daddy, please don’t worry, though I know you will. I know you think I’m just a silly little girl but honestly I’ve grown up a lot, and I will come home safe and sound I promise.
I love you all with all my heart,
Juliet.
She carefully folded the letter but didn’t seal it as it would have to be censored before it was posted. She hoped it didn’t contain anything they would object to, but she could never tell with these faceless people.
She had written to Ewan regularly from Belfast and received lots of replies. He had always told her that he loved her and that he hoped it would all be over soon and they could be together again. She had written and told him that she was joining up just before she left Belfast but didn’t know if he had received that information or not – it might have been censored before it reached him. Maybe he thought she was still in Belfast and was still writing to Kitty’s address.
My darling Ewan,
They’ve only given me a tiny bit of paper, and I don’t want to waste it so I’ll keep it short. I’m in England at a training base; the address is on the top so please write and let me know you’re okay and how you feel about, well, everything really. I look very different in uniform, though I doubt I’ll ever be able to do my hair so no bits escape. I do wish I could see you, even for a few minutes, so if there is a chance of you getting leave then maybe we could meet up now that we are at least in the same country. If there was even a tiny chance, I would love that. In the meantime, please take care of yourself, my darling. I love you.
Your girl always,
Juliet.
She was deep in thought when the housekeeper returned, mid-morning. ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ she asked kindly.
‘Better,’ Juliet replied. ‘I think a rest has made all the difference.’
‘Well, enjoy it because you are moving tomorrow as far as I understand it. Someone will come to brief you later, I’m sure. Now let’s get those letters posted for you, shall we?’ Taking the letters and the tray, she left.
Later that afternoon, Juliet found herself once again alone in a strange room awaiting yet another unexplained conference with yet another unidentified person. With Mrs Carnegie’s help, she’d managed to limp down the hall. The rest had made her hip stiff and walking was difficult. She longed to ask the housekeeper what the meeting was about but knew it would be pointless. She accepted such reticence would be necessary if she ever actually got to France, but the secrecy with which everything was dealt with here, where there was no danger, really frustrated her. She knew very little about her future at any point in this whole process. No one spoke out of turn and though she longed to speculate with her fellow trainees, she knew that to do so would mean instant dismissal.
The fact that she was constantly being drawn into conversations by her superiors, often French men or women about seemingly random subjects made her sure they were checking her fluency. She was clearly being trained for some kind of clandestine work in France but what, she had no idea. She was both exhilarated and terrified at the prospect of being dropped behind enemy lines and having to pass herself off as French. So far, she could shoot, handle explosives, read maps, use a compass, find her way in the dark, and parachute from an aeroplane. What other skills was she going to have to master?
The door opened and an officer entered. His uniform jacket was emblazoned with insignia and his brass buttons shone. Though slight, he made an imposing figure. Under dark, bushy eyebrows, his eyes were bright and penetrating. He had a neatly clipped moustache and his thinning hair was combed back from a high forehead.
‘Marine, ça va? I am Major General Colin Gubbins.’
‘Ça va bien, Monsieur.’ She was taken aback, partly that someone of so high a rank would be meeting with her at all, but also because no one had ever properly introduced themselves to her since she joined up. Juliet could never understand if this was a security measure, preparing them for life in the field where no unnecessary information should be given, or if it was a military thing. Perhaps that’s how the armed forces worked – except for the job at hand, everything else was superfluous.
‘You may speak in English now. I heard you took rather a tumble last night. How are you feeling?’
She hesitated for a moment. Was this another test? She decided to take him at his word. The enquiry was perfunctory, and the mischievous side of Juliet wondered if she did explain in detail how she felt, how he would react. But before she could say anything, he spoke again.
‘You’re Irish, I understand. Cork, I believe.’ His tone was neutral.
‘Yes, sir,’ Juliet replied. ‘West Cork.’ The English words sounded strange coming from her mouth.
‘Michael Collins country. I hear it’s very pretty. I spent some time in Kildare.’ His accent was what she’d heard described as public school.
‘Yes. It is, sir.’ Juliet was unsure how to respond. A man of his rank could only have been in Ireland in one capacity, that of the forces of occupation before independence. The irony of this situation was not lost on her.
‘Buckley. Hmm. An old colleague of mine, Colonel Maxwell served in Skibbereen. Is that anywhere near where you come from?’ Though the question was delivered lightly, Juliet sensed this was not a general chat.
‘Yes sir, it’s the nearest big town to where I grew up.’ Part of her was terrified about answering his questions – what if it was another test? But her instincts told her it wasn’t.
‘Does the name Maxwell mean anything to you?’ His eyes never left hers.
‘Yes sir, though I did not know him personally. I was very young when they, when he…left. I believe my father treated his son when he was a child.’
Major General Gubbins nodded. ‘Yes, he mentioned something about that. He was very grateful to your father. Saved the boy’s life, it seems.’
‘Yes sir, I believe he did.’ A surge of pride in her father filled her. Referring to the British withdrawal from Ireland made her realise just how bizarre this situation in which she now found herself was. She and her entire country saw the British Army as the forces of subjugation in Ireland and their expulsion was a source of great pride. Yet here she was, on their side.
‘I wanted to speak to you personally today. Normally, I don’t get the opportunity to meet with all of our operatives. Presumably, you have some inkling of why you are here and why you are receiving this training?’
‘Yes sir, I have a general idea though I don’t know any specifics.’
‘Indeed. I have a dilemma, Miss Buckley. Your instructors tell me that despite an earlier transgression, you are a determined and diligent student, brave and tenacious, and your French is good enough to pass as a native. But, I am concerned that your commitment to us is less than it should be.’
Juliet thought quickly, she had to convince this man she was committed. ‘If you are asking me do I feel loyalty to the Allied cause, then I do. I am Irish, and of course, there is tension between our countries, but I believe, with every fibre of my being, that Hitler must be stopped. He just has to be, for all our sakes and if I can help to make that come about, then I want to do it. The history of our two countries is, at this point in time, irrelevant to me.’
He thought for a moment. ‘How does your father feel about you joining up?’
Juliet knew that nothing short of total honesty was what he expected.
‘He’s not happy about it. Not because he is anti-British but because he is anti-war. He served with the Medical Cor
ps the last time and was disgusted by what he saw – that, and of course, by what he witnessed at home during the troubles.’
Major General Gubbins gave a slight laconic smile at her reference to the War of Independence and the subsequent Civil War as ‘troubles’.
‘Your mother, she’s married to a German now. And your brother is in a relationship with the man’s niece.’
Juliet flinched. But of course they knew about Otto and Ingrid. Why wouldn’t they? They knew everything else about her. Nobody had mentioned it before.
‘I had been thinking that putting you back in Dublin, helping us that way, seeing the German community there from the inside, so to speak, might be helpful. We are fairly sure that all is not as it seems within that group, and the Irish police agree with us. Your mother and, it seems, your brother move in somewhat suspect circles, to say the least. A pair of eyes and ears there might prove most useful.’
Juliet couldn’t believe her ears. After all that training, speaking French, parachute training and the rest, they wanted to send her to Dublin! To spy on her mother was unthinkable, not because she felt any loyalty to Edith, but simply because… And to suggest that James was involved was just preposterous. Her first instinct was to warn her brother, to get him away from Edith and Otto and whoever else he was mixing with these days. Quelling the urge to explode in indignation, she forced her voice to be calm and measured.
‘My mother and I are estranged. We do not communicate at all. She is a bigamist as she is not divorced from my father, but yes, she is claiming to be married to a German, Otto Hugenberg. I only met him once, with my brother in Dublin in 1937, before the war. I will not go to Dublin and spy on her and her associates. She probably knows from James that I’ve joined up, and to suddenly appear in Dublin pretending an affection we both know is false would be deeply suspicious.’
Gubbins seemed to consider her words but chose not to comment on them.
‘And this Otto Hugenberg, what does he do in Ireland?’
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 26