Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  For a moment her thoughts quietened, and she contented herself with watching the scenery becoming ever more rustic as the train chugged further north and into the lowlands of Scotland. But then, creeping into this peace, the fear intruded once more. The officers at the assessment centre where she had spent a few months before an extended leave had told their recruits nothing of what would be expected of them or where they would eventually land up. She only had the little Derwent had said about the organization that she was now a member of. Some of their number at the centre hadn’t made it through that process – how she did, she had no idea. Not being a brave person, the alternative jobs on offer – that of an interpreter or a code-breaker – had seemed more and more her thing, but here she was and God only knew what was in store for her.

  Whatever it was, the location where it would begin was top secret – so secret that not even she had been told where! All she knew was that someone would come to tell her when to get off the train, and then take her the rest of the way by car.

  As the rolling countryside turned to dramatic rugged landscape, part of her filled with trepidation once more. If this was going to be a training course, then the terrain looked more than she could handle. From what she knew of Scotland, they were headed to the east coast – a much more mountainous area than had surrounded her in the south-west in what seemed now like another lifetime ago. For a moment she let herself dwell on her child, wondering where she was and if she was thriving, but the throbbing ache of pain this set up in her heart had her shaking herself out of it and concentrating on what lay ahead.

  She had never been a physically active person. Brought up in York, and attending an all-girls boarding school, things like hockey and netball hadn’t been her thing, and she’d avoided them whenever she could. Her father had been one of the benefactors of the school, so she had rarely come up against any objections to her reluctance to PE and games. Her only real exercise had come when they visited her Aunt Laura at Hensal Grange, the beautiful house and estate in Breckton that had eventually passed to her mother on Aunt Laura’s early and very sad death. There, she and Terence had roamed the acres of fields, playing out their imaginations, and when old enough they had learned to ride the horses. Something she had loved.

  Those years had been some of the happiest in her life. She had even coped well during the times when she and Terence were separated by different schools and by her finishing her education in Paris with her friend and her family, and a year in Belgium.

  These last two years of her ‘growing-up’ time now formed the basis of why the SOE were interested in her. She was fluent in French – not just the copy-book type, but everyday conversation. And she had a good knowledge of the country. This, they said, would help her to pass herself off as a local.

  A few hours later, feeling less than adequate and, she thought, judged as such by the officer who stood in front of her, Theresa knew what was meant by having your knees knocking together in fear. Whether he could discern this, she didn’t know, but he never took his eyes off her as he explained, ‘You are here as part of an elite force. You may have heard something about our operation, but over the next few weeks you will live and breathe it. We are the Special Operations Executive. Your training begins today. You will spend six weeks here, and by the time you leave you will be so fit you’ll be able to run up Ben Nevis with a forty-pound pack on your back, without stopping for drinks. Don’t let us or yourself down. Your country needs you.’

  She’d almost smiled at this. It seemed a trite remark taken from the poster used in the First World War that had made everyone want to join up, and was catchphrased again today by many.

  The words stayed with her, and she repeated them many times over the next few days. They had lifted her spirits at first, but now, slumped down on the grassed area of a ridge and with sweat seeming to seep from every pore of her, she didn’t feel so inclined to be one of them that her country needed. Taking a deep breath, she heard her own voice cry, ‘I can’t do this . . .’

  A gentle voice answered her, ‘You can do it, Theresa. I’ll help. Let me have your pack.’

  Looking up, she found herself gazing into the beautiful face of one of the handful of women on the course. Her dark hair, swept back from her face, looked as if it had just been styled. Her eyes were kind. Theresa had heard that this girl had only just been married. How she coped with being away from her new husband, Theresa didn’t know, but, she thought, if she can do it, then I can too. This thought put strength she did not know she had back into her body. Sitting up, she let her gaze travel up to the mountain top that peaked at around fifty feet above them. It swayed against the blue sky. The girl winked. ‘It will take guts to get up there, but we can do it.’ Theresa set her jaw. She had to make it. Standing up in one determined movement, she mustered all the bravado she could and challenged the girl: ‘Beat you to the top!’

  Every day held challenges of a similar nature, plus lectures, tests of knowledge and practising the new identities. Night after night, she and the others went over their cover stories: My name is Olivia Danchanté. I am to live and work in the bakery of Monsieur et Madame Ponté as their niece from Paris. My mother – Monsieur Ponté’s sister – died, and my father left us when I was young. As Olivia’s background was close to the truth of the life her own friend lived in Paris, and which she too lived for that year with her and her grandparents, it posed her no problems.

  The real Olivia Danchanté had died along with her mother in a car accident in America three years earlier. Records of this no longer existed. This saddened Theresa, prompting her to make a promise: I will become you, Olivia, and I will not let you down. For your part, if there is another life and you are out there, then pray to keep me safe.

  1963

  As Lizzie turned the page and started to read more about Theresa’s intensive training, tiredness ached every part of her. Tucking the book under her pillow, she lay back. Already, though Theresa did not realize it, she had showed guts. Lizzie decided she would take all she could from that and deal with her own situation. She would start by getting back into Ken’s good books. Though her body and mind rejected the thought, she knew she had to find the courage to do all it took to achieve that. After that, she would visit Theresa.

  This thought had hardly died in her before the door shot open. ‘I’ve got it! We’ll leave. Me and you, Lizzie, love. We’ll leave and go somewhere as Ken can’t touch yer . . .’

  ‘But where? How?’

  ‘We’ll go to Theresa Crompton’s place. I’ve got a key, and the Old Bill ain’t snooping around there any more.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. It’s the best solution.’

  ‘There is a “but”, Rita. The police are looking for yer. Look. It says it in the article: “Police are seeking a woman who has been seen visiting on a regular basis . . .” The description that neighbour gave fits you, Rita.’

  ‘Bleedin’ hell, why didn’t yer tell me? Christ! She’ll know that . . . I – I mean . . .’

  ‘Who will know? What have yer been up to? My God, I can’t believe this! You set all this in motion. You did that vile thing of plotting with Ken to have that poor woman attacked and robbed!’

  ‘She ain’t no “poor woman”. Alright, she may be so now, but she weren’t always. She—’

  ‘Rita, I know. I know all about it. You and she were lovers.’

  ‘What yer bleedin’ saying? You’re off your head! That stuff’s turned yer. How the bleedin’ hell did yer come to that conclusion?’

  ‘I have her memoirs. They were in the bag . . . No! No, Rita, they are mine. At least until I meet Theresa Crompton and give them back to her.’

  ‘You give them to me, you ungrateful sod!’

  Something in Lizzie snapped. Using every ounce of strength she had, she sat upright and snarled at Rita, ‘Over my dead body, you whore! You try to take them and I’ll scream this place down and tell everything I know!’

  Rita stepped back. Her fo
lded body slumped into Lizzie’s wheelchair. ‘Oh, God, Lizzie. My Lizzie . . .’ After a moment, she continued, ‘I know as I deserve all you scream at me, but I’ve done me best by yer, Lizzie.’

  ‘I know yer have, but none of that excuses all of this. What did yer mean when yer said, “She’ll know”?’

  ‘Her daughter . . .’

  ‘Theresa’s daughter! Why? How do yer know where she is?’

  ‘I’ve always known where she is. Look, it’s a long bleedin’ story, but I met her four years back. She . . .’

  The more Lizzie heard, the more flabbergasted she became. It all seemed like the stuff of movies, where coincidences make the story. But this had really happened! Theresa’s daughter had approached Rita for a job, and Rita’d put two and two together. But it’s what she did with the information that sickened Lizzie, not that Rita could see anything wrong with her actions. She didn’t seem to care about the heartache she’d caused the young girl – though by the sounds of what Rita had heard of Patsy Crompton-Armitage, she’d fallen on her feet with her dad’s family – and she even seemed pleased by Terence Crompton’s death.

  What to do now she knew about it, Lizzie was at a loss to know.

  ‘Look, I’ve got an idea: I know me last one weren’t worth a light, but what if I put meself forward? Go to the police, and tell them I am her friend, that I’ve always tried to take care of her, but that I’ve been under the weather and didn’t see the article in the paper until now and had no idea she’d been attacked. I could tell them of her daughter, and other family I know of. Though why none of them has come forward . . . Still, that wife of Terence’s – Louise, she was called – she had a side to her. Too posh for her own good. She was a Land Girl as well, but she thought herself a cut above us. She was, though, I s’pose, what with her being a member of the upper-crust. She’d never have much to do with Theresa, not after her husband did that and Theresa had the breakdown, ’cos it all came out – not in the papers, nor the inquest, which just concluded that Crompton had had a sudden mental breakdown and taken his life whilst his mind was unbalanced – but after. Theresa told me that she’d said terrible things to Louise. She said she couldn’t stop herself, and she’d screamed at her that she was Terence’s real love. Somewhere in the telling, her mind snapped and she ended up attacking Louise. She was put into an asylum, and Louise moved back to her mother’s and has never spoken or contacted Theresa since.’

  ‘What about her mother? Didn’t you say Theresa still had a mother alive?’

  ‘She’s another that’s away with the fairies, or used to be. It seems she changed after her old man died. That’s how it is with some women: they make their husbands think they are vulnerable and need special care. I reckon that’s what Lady Daphne did. Anyway, I think with her Theresa was to blame. She’d have turns every time her mother visited, till they advised she didn’t visit the asylum. And there wasn’t much contact after that. Theresa’s fault. She’d never answer any letters or even open the door to her mother. She told me she felt ashamed and didn’t want any contact, as doing so only churned up the shame inside of her and made her feel unwell.’

  The more Lizzie heard, the less this post-war Theresa seemed to have in common with the woman she’d been reading about. Yes, she’d mentioned her waywardness, and being led by strong sexual urges, and her need to experience everything, but what came through was a sense of remorse and trying to atone. Now it seemed she’d caused devastation to so many lives . . . But then, she was ill – mentally ill, and not only because of her brother’s death, because other things must have happened to her during the war. No, she’d keep an open mind about Theresa Crompton until she’d finished reading her memoirs.

  ‘I think you should go to the police, Rita, but only to clear up with them that you’re the woman they’ve been looking for and to give them any information they need. But the using of Theresa has to stop. It ain’t right. you’ve caused her enough trouble. And I can’t see why yer think as Ken won’t get us if we’re with Theresa in her house. Besides, it would just bring more down on Theresa. We have to go to the police.’

  ‘No! Look, I’ve changed me mind. Hearing you say it ’as put the fear of them back into me. What if they dig deeper? You can’t trust the cops. They might get suspicious and you’ve to remember, I did play me part. I did set her up. If they come sniffing around, Ken’ll tell them that. I’m on a life licence, so I’ll go straight back inside. I can’t, Lizzie. I can’t . . .’

  Sobs wracked Rita’s body, and Lizzie knew they were genuine. Driven by fear and despair, they reached through this new exterior the drugs had given her to the soft, kind heart she’d always had. ‘Don’t, Rita. Come here. Come back on the bed.’

  Rita’s weight sank into the mattress, unbalancing Lizzie’s body. She fell onto her, and they both giggled. Rita helped her to steady herself and then held on to her. ‘Lizzie, I know I’m an old cow, always have been, but I love yer, girl, and I’m so sorry I’ve brought all this down on yer. That brother of yours is a psycho. He takes after me brother – your Uncle Alf as was. He were hung for the murder of a young lad.’

  ‘What? Oh, Rita . . .’

  ‘I didn’t ever want you to find out, but yer would have done eventually. You’ll probably find a lot out if that Alice has her way.’

  ‘Alice? Yer mean me dad’s sister? What has she got to do with it all? She’s not had any contact with me since me accident. And why did Uncle Alf murder a lad? What happened?’

  ‘Your Uncle Alf were . . . well, he were with this young lad. He said the lad were willing, but after, the lad said he was going to the police. Alf flipped. They said at the trial that the kid’s body was unrecognizable.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘Look, don’t fret yerself about it. It were a long time ago. You were only a baby. But it does worry me as to what Ken might be capable of. He has a sort of fixation with you. It mucks about with his head. He wants yer all to himself, but he wants yer to have experiences, like when he brought Len here the other day. It’s like he wants to control yer. I’m scared, Lizzie.’

  It struck Lizzie that Rita was more scared for herself than she was for her. She said she loved her, but was willing to sacrifice her to keep herself out of prison! She suppressed the anger that rose at this thought.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Lizzie. I have another idea. Leave it with me. I’ll get us out of here. I promise. There’s still them as I can call on.’

  The shocking things she’d heard about her uncle and the similarity between him and Ken overrode Lizzie’s feelings about what Rita intended. And what about her Aunt Alice? Why was she coming back into her life? Ignoring what Rita had said she asked, ‘Rita, you mentioned Aunt Alice?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s been sniffing around. She waylaid me in the street. Haven’t seen her for years – well, not since your mum’s funeral, anyway . . . Look, I didn’t want to tell yer this. None of it, but it seems your dad has been in contact with her and wants to see you.’

  Seven

  Finding the Link

  Jacques – Florida 1963

  Despite the log fire crackling into life, Jacques noticed his grandfather shivering as he reached for the quilt from the arm of the sofa. ‘Let me help you, sir.’

  The many-coloured squares of the quilt brought his grandmother to mind as he tucked it around his grandfather. She’d told him she’d taken up the tradition of the American women soon after she’d arrived here. She had stories relating to each square she’d lovingly stitched into it, and there had to be fifty or more. The one with the tiny rosebuds had come from the dress she’d worn to travel over here, and in the centre was a square that she’d cut from the faded brown corduroy college jacket belonging to his father, which she’d insisted on bringing with her. Then, near to the edge, was a square of blue velvet from Jacques’s own first little coat. There were many such pieces of material in a trunk upstairs, each marked with the date of a happening in his life and all preserved for the day his o
wn wife would fashion her own quilt. He laughed to himself, as he doubted any such thing would happen. He couldn’t imagine any of the girls he knew going in for such occupations as sitting quietly stitching memory quilts, and he even doubted that their mothers had kept up the tradition. You were more likely to see them driving a big truck – that’s when they weren’t burning their bras!

  Sipping his bourbon it traced a warm feeling down his gullet into his stomach, and he began to relax. His need to learn more about his father hadn’t lessened, but he worried about the effect on his grandfather of revisiting painful memories, and once again said so. ‘Please don’t go on, Grandfather. It is too much for you. Maybe another time . . .’

  ‘No, now is the right time . . . Those words of your father’s – “No one persecutes the Jews here” – often ring in my ears. They were said so innocently, by a boy I thought had changed to a man, but I was to see him become even more of a man. As I said, he did find out about my family, but by that time his life had changed, and so had his views, as things were coming to light that he never believed could happen.’

  Isaac – Paris, July 1940

  ‘Father, you have to get out. You have to go into hiding. You are in great danger.’

  Listening to his son, Isaac felt his heart tugged in two. ‘But what about you? Pierre, your mother and I are very worried. You have to come with us.’

  ‘Father, there are movements – people who are joining forces and forming secret societies. Resistance groups – people who want to fight the German rule, and will eventually triumph to free France. I have joined one such group, and through them I have found a place for you and Mother. Here, many people know you are Jewish. It is not safe. Grandmère will have to go with you. This way the neighbours will only know that you have all disappeared. They will be thankful to have you out of their midst, and as you are not yet known to the Germans, they will not mention you. They know that the Germans torture anyone they think may have collaborated with a Jew. The neighbours will fear that their friendship with you may be construed as that.’