Juliet longed to confide in this kind doctor but her training was ingrained too deep. Also, as he’d said, the less this lovely family knew the better. So she said nothing.
‘If you’re going to see this man, and he seems to think that you will, then you must be extremely careful. I have been very happy with your work and my boys are very fond of you, but I cannot have German officers calling here, it is too dangerous, you understand. You are a very nice girl, well brought up, and I know you would never be a collaborator – so I assume you have other, better reasons, and I do want to help you. As you know, my boys lost their dear Maman, and I cannot risk making them orphans. So, what I propose is this, explain to your Nazi officer that life is difficult for girls who collaborate, so while you would like to spend time with him, he must be discreet. He seemed to be a reasonable man, for a German, so maybe this will work?’
‘Perhaps,’ Juliet replied. If only she could get to Lise before eleven in the morning, but she knew that she couldn’t. It would be very dangerous for both of them if she made her way there now, after curfew. And Lise had said she was going to be away all day tomorrow. No, Juliet would just have to handle this on her own.
Dr Blain said good night, and Juliet sat alone in the small kitchen. The enormity of what faced her filled her with terror. How on earth had it come to this? She was Juliet Buckley, from Dunderrig, West Cork, and here she was, in a doctor’s house in Poitiers, risking her life every day delivering information for the British under the noses of the Gestapo. Now, not only was she to do that, but she was to go on a date with a German officer who, if he found out who she really was, would have her interrogated, tortured, and shot. She wanted to be at home, in Dunderrig, sitting at the table with Mrs Canty making scones and Daddy reading the paper by the range and James painting somewhere in the garden. Instead, she was stranded in enemy-occupied France, and there was no way home.
She thought about just not being there when Friedman appeared in the morning, but she couldn’t do that. It would put Dr Blain and the children in a very difficult position and, anyway, he’d probably just wait until she got back. She couldn’t just disappear – where would she go?
Slowly and quietly, she crept to bed, hoping not to wake the boys. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and she wished she had something from home – a letter, a photograph, anything. She’d written letters to Daddy, Solange, James, and Ewan to be sent home in the event of her death. She had left them with Vera Atkins, the woman in charge of the French section of SOE. When writing them, it had all seemed so unreal, and – if she were honest – very romantic. She had none of those feelings now. This situation wasn’t romantic or daring, it was deadly dangerous. She thought of her small suitcase back in England. All her personal things were in there – things that made her who she was – letters from home and from Ewan, the bracelet Daddy had given her on her eighteenth birthday, James’s miniature painting of Dunderrig, the locket with a picture of Ewan inside. Here she was – not Juliet Buckley, girlfriend, daughter, sister – but a character the SOE had created for her to play in this potentially deadly game, with a fictitious past and very possibly no future.
All night long, she imagined scenarios. Perhaps, if she was silly or boring, he would have no interest in taking her out again. Maybe, if she just refused to go out with him on the grounds that she was a patriotic French girl, and she couldn’t collaborate… Or maybe, she could engineer a huge row and slap his face, thus ending any potential romance.
She thought back to her final training course at Beaulieu. She tried to recall her classes – was there anything she had learned that she could use now? There she had learned how to live a clandestine life, how never to look suspicious, how to follow someone without being detected, and how to lose someone following you. She learned about invisible ink and one-time codes, how to pick locks and duplicate keys and how to think on her feet.
The part of the course that kept coming back to mind was how to withstand interrogation. One night, she was roughly pulled from her bed and shoved in her nightdress down the corridors of the house on the Beaulieu estate to a cold, damp-smelling basement. The men who took her were dressed in the uniforms of the Gestapo and spoke to her only in rough guttural German. There she was interrogated under bright lights and man-handled. They threatened her, they told her they knew all about her family and if she didn’t tell them what they wanted to know, then her family would suffer. They shouted at her and whispered unspeakable threats in her ears. In her logical mind, she knew it was a trial run, not the real thing, but it was still a horrible experience. The next morning, when she was debriefed and told she’d done well, they told her that the real thing was much worse. The real Gestapo didn’t just threaten to pull your fingernails out one by one, they did it. They used water to almost drown their victims, they beat them until they could no longer see, hear or feel – no type of torture was too brutal. As they described the way the Germans extracted information, she felt sick, wishing she had been left in ignorance. They told her it was vital she knew what she was getting herself into before finally signing up.
What had that poor British agent suffered?
By the time the sun rose, she had decided she was going to do it – she would go out with him and see what she could find out. If she was going to be caught and face the unthinkable consequences of that eventuality, at least it should be in the hope of achieving something. Perhaps the agent had indeed been deliberately betrayed, and she could find out who had done such a terrible thing.
She rose, washed, and dressed in her best dress. She pinned her hair loosely, leaving curling tendrils escape, and used cochineal from the doctor’s larder to stain her lips red. She thought sadly of the doctor’s widow and how she must have bought the food colouring for a cake before she died – and here she was using it to lure a German officer. Sitting on her bed at a quarter to eleven, she sent a mental note to Ewan, hoping that she could link telepathically with him in the skies over Europe.
My darling Ewan,
I can’t write to you because I’m not me. I’m not where you think I am, and I’m not doing what you think I’m doing. In this web of lies that my life has become, one thing is true. I love you and I will, if at all possible, return to you. I’m about to go on a date today with a German officer. If you can hear me, sense me, please know that you are my man, and I am your girl. Nothing could ever change that.
We will be together in Dunderrig.
All my love,
Juliet.
Even thinking her own name felt dangerous. Her cover story had to be her; it was drilled into her from the moment she got it. She must act, think, and speak as Marie-Louise, even in her own head.
Chapter 35
‘But what about Lili? Why can’t you wait until next week? I’ll have finished the Shelbourne commission by then, and we can all go up to Dublin together.’ James was trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
‘No. I am going to Dublin, on my own, for a few days. Can’t you just mind Lili here? Solange and Mrs Canty do most of the minding anyway, and it’s only for a few days. Helmut needs me, and I can’t let him down.’ Ingrid was adamant.
‘Look, Lili isn’t the problem, you know that – sure, I love minding her, but I have to go up to Dublin next week, anyhow. The Gresham hung them in all wrong and then the manager complained to me about it. It’s best if I’m there for the hanging myself. Can’t Helmut wait for a few more days? It seems mad you going tomorrow and then me on Monday or Tuesday.’
James was trying to be reasonable, but Ingrid was the most stubborn person he’d ever met. Since they were married, she’d continued to work on and off for Helmut Clissman, which James found a little bewildering. She could never explain what she did for him – clerical things for the language school, she always said. But surely he could have got anyone for that? It was her decision to stay in Dunderrig – he’d have been happy to live anywhere, so long as he had Ingrid and Lili, but his new
wife was determined to stay in West Cork. Richard had given them the cottage on Dunderrig land, which had been empty since the Cantys moved up to the main house – neither of them was getting any younger and Richard and Solange were happier knowing the aging couple were under their roof. The cottage was tucked away off the avenue up to the main house, and with the help of Solange, they’d made a beautiful little home. They were secluded enough to live their own lives but near enough to the big house for any help they might need.
Things were going very well for James with his art sales. The large painting he did for the bank had attracted attention from other financial institutions, as well as from hotels and country houses, and as a result he had commissions queuing up. He was easily in work for the next two years honouring those commitments alone. Lili was the light of his life, though now that she was running around, nothing was safe. He had come into the little room he used as a studio last week to find both the walls and his baby daughter covered in burnt sienna.
Ingrid had been extremely down lately, having miscarried two babies in eight months. The first time, she was only two months gone, and no one knew she was pregnant, not even James. She had told him once it was all over. The second one had been only a month ago – she had been three months pregnant and had miscarried in the hospital. She had refused to discuss it with him, and he didn’t know what to say to help her. He was much more secure in their relationship than he had been before Lili arrived, but in loving Ingrid, he had to accept there was a part of her he would never know. All this trekking up and down to Dublin couldn’t be helping her – she looked exhausted and had been very jumpy of late.
‘It’s only because I want to look after you, make things easy on you, that I’m saying it, you know?’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘You look worn out, and I think maybe just taking it easy here is best, and when I’m going up to Dublin, we can go together. That way, I can do all the bag carrying and all that. You’re not long out of hospital.’
He could feel her tense in his arms. ‘James, you are my husband, not my keeper. I want to go tomorrow and so that is what I will do. Now can you look after Lili or not?’
‘Of course I can,’ he sighed.
Later that night, he walked up to the house. Ingrid had fallen asleep reading to Lili in German. He saw the light on in his father’s study and tapped on the window so as not to wake the whole house.
Richard opened the French doors and James stepped in.
‘Ah, James. Is everything all right? ’Tis late you’re out and about.’
‘They’re all fine. Both fast asleep.’ James looked at his father thinking how much he’d aged in recent years. There had been no word from Juliet since February of 1941 and the fear that she was dead or worse was a burden that Richard carried heavily. Her last letter was on his desk, read and reread.
‘You know if she had been killed we’d have been told, Dad,’ James said. ‘She said she had given this address as her home address, and we were not to worry if we didn’t hear from her. Bad news travels fast.’
It was true. The autumn of 1943 was fast becoming winter and still nothing. The war finally looked like it was turning in the Allied favour with the sinking of large numbers of U-boats. The Battle of the Atlantic was all but won, and there was a sense of optimism and hope that the end might be in sight.
‘Where is she, James?’ Richard looked broken. ‘I got a letter a while back from that lad she was going out with. A Scotsman called Ewan McCrae. I wrote back saying we’d heard nothing, but we’d let him know if we did. Poor lad, I think he really loves her and is frantic to hear from her. I know how he feels.’
James hugged his father, wishing he could say something to console him. Juliet was always in his mind, and now that he was a father himself, he had a better understanding of the torture of not knowing where your child was, or if she was safe. James was glad that his little family was a distraction for his father. Richard’s greatest joy was Lili. The baby had in no way replaced Juliet, but she was such a happy, funny little thing that she brought a sparkle to Dunderrig that would otherwise be crippled with worry and grief. Lili loved her ‘Gandah’ and Richard spent hours with her.
‘Sure we are all in the same boat, but you know how close we are and I think I’d know, I’d feel something if she was dead, and I’m not just saying that. I’ve always felt that we were part of the same person…it’s hard to explain. She’s part of me and I’m part of her. She’s all right, Dad, I know it. I haven’t a clue where she is or what she’s doing, but when this bloody war is over, she’ll be home.’
‘I hope you’re right, I really do.’ Turning to his desk, Richard took out a bottle of whiskey. Pouring two glasses, he handed one to James.
‘Anyway, worrying won’t solve anything, I suppose.’ He gazed into the swirling amber liquid as he twirled the glass. ‘Now, what has you wandering around in the middle of the night like a lost soul?’
James was never surprised when his father seemed to know instinctively what was going on. It was what made him a truly great doctor. He could see beyond the obvious, and he realised that pills were not what was needed in many cases, but a sympathetic ear.
‘I’m worried about Ingrid. She won’t talk about this last miscarriage. She shouted at Lili yesterday, which she never does, and now she is hell-bent on tearing up to Dublin to do some work for Helmut tomorrow. She’s only out of hospital three weeks…’ James downed some whiskey.
Richard thought about what to say next. He was reluctant to interfere in his son’s marriage, but he could see James was trying his best and getting nowhere.
‘Well, James, the thing is that for you, those miscarriages were sad, and you’d have loved to have a son or another daughter. At the same time, for us men, a baby isn’t really a baby until we can see it in front of our eyes. For women, it’s different – it’s a baby from the moment she finds out she’s pregnant; some say even from the moment of conception. We’ll never understand it, but I will tell you this. Stay talking to her; don’t let the silence build up between ye. I did that with your mother and looking back on it now, it must have been hard for her, stuck down here away from everything, all her friends. I was in France when she was expecting you two, so I was no help to her at all. She pushed me away, that’s true, but I let her do it. I should have told her I loved her, tried to understand, but instead I left her alone – not deliberately, but in the absence of any better ideas. I should have tried harder, maybe given in a bit more. I know Mrs Canty would poison her if she ever saw her again, but you know, ‘t’wasn’t all her doing, either. If I were a young man like you again, I’d do things very differently. I never knew what became of her but if I met her now, I think I’d owe her an apology. I came home destroyed after the war – I still am, I suppose – and I thought she’d just forgive me and move on. I never really tried to see things from her point of view. You know, James, the longer I live the more I realise we’re all just trying to get along, trying to love and be loved. She gave me yourself and Juliet, and without ye, my life would have been meaningless. And for that, I’m eternally grateful to her.’
James knew that this was his chance to tell his father. If he let it go any longer, the lie would seem a lot worse. Richard had never spoken so openly about his marriage before – it was like they were not just father and son now, but friends. He knew he owed this man, who had reared them and loved them all his life, the truth.
‘I see her, from time to time.’ The words hung in the air between them. The clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece. Eventually Richard spoke.
‘I wondered, did you? But you never said and ‘t’wasn’t my place to be asking. How is she?’
James was amazed how relaxed his father seemed at the news. ‘She’s well. She got married in Germany, before the war.’
Richard almost smiled. ‘Did she now? The small matter of being still married to me didn’t pose a problem then? Sure what harm, I suppose. What’s he like? Did you mee
t him?’
James told his father the whole story, about the fireworks between himself and Juliet, about Otto and his connections, and of how he really met Ingrid.
Throughout the entire tale, Richard just sat and listened. And when James had finished, he sighed and shook his head.
‘Well, I’m glad she’s happy. I can well imagine the atmosphere between herself and Juliet – they never hit it off at all. You could have told me before, you know.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But sure, then again maybe you couldn’t. I can be a narky auld fecker sometimes, James, and ’tis worse I’m getting in my old age. If it wasn’t for Solange, I’d have offended the whole parish by now. I don’t know how she puts up with me herself. No wonder Edith was driven mad by me.’
‘You’re not old, and you’re much more patient than I would ever have been with people’s ailments. Everyone loves you, and they know you’ll look after them when they need you.’
Taking another sip of whiskey, James thought about what Ingrid brought to his life – the love, the laughter, the wild uncontrollable passion, and felt a deep sadness for his father, who had missed out on a loving marriage. Richard was his father, a doctor, and the head of the household, but he was also a man.
‘Was there any woman you even liked, back over the years?’
He had asked something like this before, and Richard had merely replied that he was a doctor, a married man, and this was Dunderrig. Now James put the question tentatively again. In the dimly lit study in the middle of the night, they were just two men drinking whiskey and talking. He could sense his father’s hesitation, debating whether or not to confide in him. After several minutes, Richard spoke.
‘You’re not the only one with a secret, James. There was someone. Is someone, if I’m honest about it. She’s been under my roof for the last twenty-five years, but she doesn’t see me as anything other than a friend. She adored Jeremy – you should have seen the way she looked at him, like she wanted to crawl inside him. And he was mad about her, too. I think having yourself and Juliet to mind was the only thing that gave her a reason to keep going. Those early years, she used to walk around the gardens. I’d watch her from the surgery, the tears pouring down her face. I wanted to hold her and wipe the tears away, but I couldn’t, and she wouldn’t have wanted me to, anyway. Even if I could have won her, she could never have loved me as much as she once loved my best friend. And even after your mother left, how could I have offered her my heart when I could never offer her marriage?’
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 31