Escape by Moonlight

by Mary Nichols

  She deliberately put her mind to recalling every detail of that long, lazy morning of lovemaking: his hands exploring her body, his lips caressing her, his murmured words of love and her own uninhibited response. They had forgotten all about the war, forgotten they had just blown up a train and taken soldiers’ lives, enemy lives it was true, but lives just the same, forgotten everything in the joy of finding each other. They had even forgotten about Lisabette. Would she find out about her and Max through someone else? If only she could get out of this place …

  Her last meal of the day, another cup of thin soup and some dry bread, came at four o’clock and then at six the light went out and she was left to endure a second night of misery. She had never felt so cold and so hungry. If she had not had her overcoat, she would surely have frozen to death. Perhaps that would be the easier death. Why was she thinking of death? That was defeatist and she wasn’t beaten yet.

  Charles, in the MI6 communications room, was one of the first to hear of Justine’s arrest and the scattering of the circuit. It was news he had been dreading. He knew about the sabotage on the railway and coming so soon afterwards he could only assume it was not unconnected. What had happened? The radio message had necessarily been brief and left him wanting to know more. What had she been charged with? Would she be able to hold out against prolonged interrogation? What was Max doing? Was Lizzie implicated? After all, she had been taking men over the Swiss border to freedom. How many people knew about that? Oh, how he wished he had gone over to France as soon as war was declared and fetched her home. And what was he to say to Annelise? Should he tell her? She would want to know how he knew.

  ‘There isn’t anything we can do,’ Buckmaster told him when the message was relayed to him. ‘Until we learn more details, we’ll carry on as usual.’

  ‘I’m also worried about my daughter and my wife’s parents.’

  ‘They’re not in Paris, are they?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But if Justine is made to talk—’ He stopped unable to put his fear into words.

  ‘We’ll know more when Etienne comes on air again this evening. Try not to worry.’

  Try not to worry! How could he not worry?

  He did not go off duty that evening, preferring to stay to hear the transmission, due at seven o’clock. Everyone was there: Major Buckmaster, Miss Atkins and several others, standing about waiting and hoping. They waited half an hour past the scheduled time, but nothing happened. Etienne was silent. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Buckmaster said. ‘He might have been delayed or had trouble with the wireless.’ The major was an optimist and disinclined to believe anything had gone wrong unless faced with irrefutable evidence. ‘We’ll see if he comes up in the morning.’

  They dispersed and Charles went back to his London flat where he lived while working in London. He rang Annelise as he did every evening, but said nothing of Justine’s arrest. He kept the conversation light, asked about what was happening at home and was Edmund behaving himself.

  ‘As far as I know,’ she said. ‘He’s at school.’

  ‘I forgot. Stupid of me.’

  ‘Are you all right? You sound distracted.’

  ‘Do I? I’m fine, darling, but missing you. I’ll try and come home for a few days soon. Have you heard from Amy? How is she?’

  ‘Swotting for exams.’

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since the New Year, but he writes. He’s on a course, learning to fly a different aeroplane. He’s not very communicative.’

  ‘Head full of Belinda, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Perhaps. Young Bernard is behaving very oddly, creeping about with a notebook and pencil and looking guilty.’

  ‘Have you asked him about it?’

  ‘No, I don’t like to pry, it’s probably some silly game he’s playing. He doesn’t seem to mix with the other children.’

  ‘Well, if you are really worried, try and get a look at the notebook. I’ll speak to him when I come home, if you like. The others are OK, are they?’

  ‘Yes, no bother at all. Cecily is a poppet and Raymond and Martin have joined the Boy Scouts; they are having great fun learning the Morse code and communicating in dots and dashes. I shall miss them when they go home.’

  He smiled to himself as he rang off. His wife loved children, all children, it didn’t matter about their background. She would be worried sick if she knew what had happened to her little sister. Grown up or not, Justine would always be her little sister. He spent a sleepless night wondering if she ought to be told. If she found out later that he had known about it and said nothing, she would be more than a little miffed.

  Bernard, who rarely let his notebook out of his presence, had left it on his bedside table. It was too good an opportunity to miss and Annelise, who had gone into his room to put away his clean laundry, sat on the bed to skim through it. What she read opened her eyes in astonishment. Here were the detailed movements of almost everyone in the village, where they went, whom they saw, even what they talked about. He seemed particularly interested in Albert Storey, and the transcription of the conversation between Frank Lambert and Mrs Storey was engrossing. Surely he had made it up? But why? She smiled to herself, catching sight of copies of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and The Thirty-nine Steps on his table. He had been reading too many detective stories, that was it. But she ought to warn him against intrusion. She could not imagine Albert Storey or Frank Lambert taking kindly to being followed.

  She looked up as he burst into the room. He stopped when he saw her and what she had in her hand. She smiled. ‘I should not have looked at this,’ she said, holding it out to him. ‘It was unforgivable.’

  ‘S’alright,’ he said, taking it from her.

  ‘It made me wonder why you were doing it,’ she went on. ‘It is not very nice following people about and listening to their private conversations.’

  ‘I like solving mysteries.’

  ‘Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean you should spy on people.’

  ‘Not even if they break the law?’

  ‘No one is breaking the law,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Storey said Mr Storey was a bigamist. That’s breaking the law, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but they were only guessing.’

  ‘And Mrs Storey did threaten to do away with her husband.’

  ‘I am sure she didn’t mean it. Ordinary people don’t just do away with people, Bernard, that’s the stuff of fiction. You are not to go on with this. If any of these people were to hear about it, we should both be in trouble.’ She paused, watching his face; his expression gave nothing away. He was learning from his hero, the inscrutable Sherlock Holmes. ‘Have I your word?’

  ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, off you go.’

  He disappeared, taking the notebook with him, leaving her still sitting on his bed in contemplation. Would he keep his word? Perhaps she ought to have confiscated his notes. They were certainly intriguing. Who would have thought Mrs Storey would be cheating on her husband so soon after marrying him?

  Charles came home a few days later. He looked tired; the war was taking the life out of everyone. He need not have become so involved; he was past conscription age and could have stayed at home doing exercises with the Home Guard and no one would have thought the worse of him, but no, he must do his bit. Worrying him over some silly nonsense of Bernard’s would be unkind. Perhaps she would leave it until he was more rested.

  She discovered what was on his mind after they had eaten their evening meal and were sitting together on the sofa in the drawing room, curled up in each other’s arms. They had always been close, not afraid to show their love for each other, and often sat by the light of the fire in calm contentment. This evening she sensed the tension in him. ‘Things not going well at work?’ she queried, turning her face up to his.

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘Sweetheart, I’ve got some bad news …’

  ‘Jack!’ Her heart
was in her mouth.

  ‘No, not Jack. As far as I know he’s fine. It’s Justine.’

  ‘Justine?’ She squirmed round to face him. ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s been arrested.’

  ‘Arrested, whatever for? And how do you know?’

  He smiled. ‘I do work in Intelligence, Annelise.’

  ‘Oh, so the way you found out is a secret?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m going to tell you as much as I dare, but you must say nothing to anyone. Promise me.’

  ‘Of course I promise. In any case, I can guess. She’s been working for the Resistance, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will they do to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. And we’ve lost our communication with the group so we don’t know what’s going on. I asked if I could be sent to find out, but they won’t let me go …’

  ‘I should think not! You mustn’t even think of it.’

  ‘We have been in touch with a neighbouring circuit to see if they know anything, but so far they haven’t come back to us with anything positive.’

  ‘You will tell me if they do?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘What about Lizzie and Maman and Papa?’

  ‘They are not involved.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Oh, this is all so worrying. Here we are safe and sound in Nayton and they are going through goodness knows what terrors. If only Lizzie had come home at the start of the war. Can these clever people in London not find a way of bringing her out?’

  ‘Sweetheart, Lizzie and your parents are safe where they are. The powers that be have more urgent concerns at the moment. I am afraid we have to be patient and hope it will all turn out for the best. Justine is strong and clever, she will come through it, you’ll see.’

  ‘I pray you are right.’

  They were silent for some time. He did not tell her how worried everyone in Baker Street was about the lack of communication. They could not be sure Etienne or Max or Anne had not already been arrested and the whole circuit blown. Hanging about waiting for something to happen was fraying everyone’s nerves.

  He put his arm about her and drew her back into his embrace. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Nothing much, the usual Women’s Institute stuff, entertaining the airmen on the base. There are Americans there now and they appreciate being invited into people’s homes. Some of the village girls have been going out with them. I know this because it’s all written down in Bernard’s notebook.’

  ‘So you managed a peek at it, did you?’

  ‘Yes. It is extraordinary. I can’t make up my mind whether to be angry with him or marvel at his dedication. It’s well written too, no spelling mistakes that I could see and very graphic.’

  ‘What’s it in aid of?’

  ‘He sees himself as another Sherlock Holmes, tracking down murderers and spies. There was an intriguing bit about Frank Lambert and the new Mrs Storey. It seems they are having an affair and he heard them discussing how Mr Storey got rid of his first wife and whether he was a bigamist.’

  ‘Bernard’s been reading too many detective novels.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.

  ‘Anyway, he promised me he wouldn’t do it anymore.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘What is this war doing to everybody, Charles? No one behaves normally anymore.’

  ‘These are not normal times, darling. I simply thank God you are the same as you’ve always been and home is the same.’

  She laughed. ‘Not quite. We’ve lost most of the servants, half the house is shut up and the flower beds are all growing vegetables. Jones has begun sowing seeds in the greenhouse, now we’ve seen the back of the winter. He grumbled because he couldn’t get oil to heat it and everything would be late as a consequence.’

  He was glad to change the subject, and the doings of the inhabitants of Nayton occupied them until it was time to listen to the nine o’clock news.

  1942 was not a good year for the Allies. There was heavy fighting in North Africa and in the Far East where Singapore fell to the Japanese and thousands of British soldiers were taken prisoner, including many from the Royal Norfolks; Malta had been under ceaseless aerial bombardment since the previous December and the King had awarded its people the George Cross for their bravery. In Russia Leningrad was under siege but holding out gamely. In April, air raids on British historic cities were resumed after a few weeks respite and Exeter, Bath, York and Norwich were targeted in retaliation, so they were told, for the RAF attacks on Rostock and Lübeck.

  Lucy had just put Peter to bed and was making herself a little supper when the air-raid siren went. She turned off the gas and fetched the baby from his cot. She was not particularly afraid; there had been raids before and though there had been a lot of damage and some loss of life, they were nothing like as bad as those on London. Sometimes she did not even bother to go to the shelter, but sat in the cupboard under the stairs, which everyone had been told was the safest part of the house. She debated now whether to go there or to the shelter. Peter was still fast asleep and she knew the shelter would be noisy and airless and he would be unsettled and miserable. On the other hand, she could hear the drone of aircraft and there seemed to be an awful lot of them.

  She picked up a small case containing what she deemed essential supplies: nappies, baby food and Peter’s teddy bear because he wouldn’t go to sleep without it, sandwiches for herself and a flask of tea, a book to read and some knitting. Peter was growing out of all his clothes and she had taken to pulling out jumpers of her own to knit new ones for him. Carrying Peter and the case she opened the front door. The bombers were overhead and even as she stood on the step she saw some of them releasing bombs. The explosions that followed shook the house and flung debris into the air. It was too close for comfort and she dare not risk running for the shelter. She went back inside and dived under the stairs, shutting the door behind her.

  There, amid the clutter of vacuum cleaner, ironing board, spare coats and shoes, she sat on a low stool rocking Peter in her arms and crooning lullabies, in an effort to drown out the dreadful noise going on outside. The screaming sound the bombs made as they fell was terrifying in itself and that was followed by explosions which shook the house. She hugged Peter to her and flung herself over him every time there was a bigger than usual bang. It went on and on; she was sure all the windows had been blown out and all the pictures – her lovely portrait – must have come off the wall and been shattered.

  She was trying to reach about in the dark for the torch to see what time it was by her wristwatch, when the biggest explosion yet was followed by the sound of walls collapsing. Dust flew in under the gap beneath the door, making it difficult to breathe; above her the stairs rocked and she cowered over Peter, afraid they would collapse on them. They held, but how long for she did not know. She tried to push the door open but it wouldn’t budge. She was trapped in the ruins of her home and all she could do was pray.

  The casualties had been coming into the hospital all night and Amy was so busy she did not have time to think about her own safety, though she was worried about Lucy. Every time the ambulance men brought in new patients, they brought horrendous stories of what was happening. Cushion’s wood store, Bullen’s paint shop, Morgan’s Brewery and the Wincarnis factory were all on fire. The Mackintosh chocolate factory and shops like Curl’s and Bond’s had been hit. But the worst of it was that large parts of the old city centre with its Victorian terrace houses had been destroyed, among them a whole row along Waterloo Road. She searched every new intake, but there was no Lucy, no Peter, and she didn’t know whether to be glad or more worried than ever.

  ‘They’re probably safe in a shelter somewhere,’ one of the ambulance men soothed her when she told him of her fears.

  All the same, she couldn’t wait to go off duty and see for herself. Picking her way through the devastation after the all-clear, she found herself look
ing at the ruins of the row of houses which included Lucy’s home. It was simply a heap of rubble with a chimney stack sticking out of it. The fires which had raged had been put out and rescuers were digging in the debris.

  ‘Did they get out?’ she asked one of them.

  He paused with a lump of masonry in his hand and turned to her. ‘Who?’

  ‘Lucy and her baby.’ She pointed. ‘They lived in that one.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them. They may have gone to the shelter down the road or been taken to the reception centre at the school. Have you tried those?’

  The air-raid shelter was empty now the all-clear had sounded, but the reception centre was crowded with people, mostly women, children and old men. Wrapped in blankets, some simply stared into space, numb with the shock and horror of it. Being handed mugs of hot tea they drank unthinkingly. Children dashed noisily up and down; they had been frightened, but now they were safe they were letting off steam. Lucy was not there. Amy returned to the wreckage of the house.

  ‘I can’t find her,’ she said to the man she had first approached. ‘She often used to shelter under the stairs.’

  ‘Right.’ He shouted to others who were digging. ‘Give us a hand, will you? I think there might be someone under this lot.’