by Mary Wood
‘Show me the way. I’m here to do everything you command.’
‘Ahh, you may live to regret saying that!’ His laughter held a mischievousness that tingled through her. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought of a scenario such as this. Something zinged between them. An instant chemistry. In his eyes she read a return of the feeling. He took her hand and led her to the safety of the trees before running back and gathering up her parachute. ‘We will hide it in here. Quickly, get your suit off.’
The increased temperature of this part of the world enveloped her in warmth, and she was glad to strip off her flying suit, though her attempts to straighten out the creases from her three-quarter-length flared skirt proved in vain. She’d wrapped it carefully around her legs to fit inside the suit and to keep it from creasing, but to no avail. Her twinset had fared better, but the thought came to her: Why didn’t I choose a blouse, one that I could have undone a couple of buttons of . . .?
Pierre busied himself whilst she did this. He removed a boulder next to a tree, opening up a gaping hole, and stuffed her parachute and suit into it. Pushing the boulder back into place set the muscles on his arms rippling. It didn’t take much imagination to feel them around her. He turned and saw her gaze on him. It didn’t embarrass her. Everything felt natural, as if they had known one another for ever. And not just known – had been intimate with each other – already made love, even. But then, they had: with their eyes and with every sinew of their bodies.
When he took her hand, a tingle went through her. His eyes found hers again. His words were not the ones she knew he wanted to speak. ‘Hurry, Olivia. We have time to get to know one another later. Hold my hand and play the part of my girlfriend. For now we must get you to safety, and pretending we are just young lovers out for a stroll is part of that.’
She didn’t have to pretend.
Monsieur Ponté’s shop was attached to his house, but they took the entrance to the shop. Though empty of customers, a man stood behind the counter. They didn’t stop to acknowledge him. Pierre hurried her through a swinging, stable-like door. The aroma of freshly cooked bread teased her nostrils, and the sight of the delicious-looking loaves and baguettes stacked on wooden slatted shelves in the room they emerged into brought saliva to her mouth. It had been hours since she’d eaten.
Passing through this room, they entered the warm bakery with its large cast-iron ovens. The heat from these reddened her cheeks. Everything was cleaned down and shining as though the day’s baking had been completed. Through this they came into the kitchen of the house – a room that took her back years to when she’d stayed with her friend in Paris, as the layout and decor were similar.
There was blue gingham everywhere. Fresh and crisp, it hung around the deep pot sinks and draining board, over the table in the centre, and cushions in the material adorned the high-backed wooden chairs. Matching tea towels hung over the brass rail in front of the large black grate, and curtains of the same material, frilled at the edges, draped the three small windows. The effect was pretty, welcoming and cosy. Madame Ponté motioned to her to sit down. ‘You are very welcome, Olivia. My husband will be through in a moment. I will make coffee – if you can call it that these days. It is chicory stuff, but the only likeness we can get hold of. I have a secret way of brewing it, though, so it doesn’t taste too bad.’
It tasted very good. Attuned now to their different accents, she attempted to make conversation. ‘It is very good of you to have me and to provide me with this cover. I need to sit with you very soon to talk about the family so that I am as familiar with the different members of it as a niece should be. I will work hard during my time in the shop. It is necessary that we maintain that cover to the last detail and that I become known as your niece and accepted in the community. Although I am here to help, not all will take that as a code of honour in protecting me, so you must stick religiously to the story of why I am here, even to your closest friends. Pierre, when I landed you used my real name. You should not have known that. It disturbs me that you did.’
‘I am sorry. As the leader of this group I have to know everything about you. Madame Ponté, will you leave us with our coffee and tell Monsieur Ponté not to enter until I call him?’ Once Madame Ponté had left the room, which she did without question, Pierre said, ‘I know more than you know yourself. Your profile came before you. We accepted you on it and on your dedication to your training. We also know you have no need to do this work. You had a comfortable life at home, which your money could have sustained for you. You could have chosen to do a cushy job for your war effort, and the fact that you didn’t makes you more authentic to us. I am the only one who knows these intimate details about you. There is nothing written anywhere. They were communicated in person by another agent – a woman who is working not far from here, but whom you must never meet up with. I won’t make the mistake again of using your real name. You can trust me on that.’
‘Thank you. How will we communicate?’
‘I will use different methods. And I have my bread delivered every day. I look forward to your visits when you bring it to me.’
She ignored the look that went with this. She had so many questions. ‘How is it you are able to move around so freely?’
‘I can’t; I have to take great care. I was a student in my final year when all of this broke.’ He went on to tell her about his family and his reason for fighting. ‘I am part of the forced labour group who work for the Germans. Because of my academic skills – maths in particular – I work in a bank. It is an assigned position. I have to be very careful at all times. I introduced myself to you as Pierre Rueben, a name that would be very dangerous for me to use.’
‘Yes, I was surprised, as it gives your origin away immediately. And Pierre, I am very sorry about what happened to your family.’
His eyes clouded over for a moment. His guard dropped and she saw his body tremble. She so wanted to go to him, to hold him and to comfort his pain.
‘Thank you, but we must stay professional.’ It was his turn to bring things back onto stable ground. ‘I am known as Pierre Becke – that is the name of the family my father and mother and grandmother are with.’
There was so much to learn, and Pierre seemed to want to brief her right now, as he went on to tell her of how he’d moved his family out and then about the other Resistance workers, one by one.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I am very tired and I cannot take all of this in at the moment. It has been a long and very stressful day.’
‘But of course. I am sorry. I will call Monsieur Ponté through, introduce you, and then you must get some rest. I will be back tonight. Then we must collaborate our stories until we feel as though we have known each other all our lives.’
‘Oh, I have . . . I mean . . .’
He took her hand. ‘I know what you mean, ma chérie . . .’ The light kiss he planted on her fingertips sent waves of pleasure through her whole body. She lowered her eyes, somehow feeling shy and unable to react in her usual flirty manner.
She heard his gentle laugh as he went to the door to call in Monsieur Ponté – a man who turned out to be a stereotype of everyone’s imagined French baker, complete with a large manicured moustache, pot belly, receding hair, twinkling eyes and an easy charm that made Theresa feel even more at home.
‘You are very welcome, ma chérie.’
‘Merci, monsieur. It is good of you to accommodate me. I will try to limit the danger to you and your family as much as I can.’
‘I see no problem, mademoiselle. Your accent is good – Parisian and with only a slight hint of the English diction. That’s something local people will pick up on, so it is necessary that you have a story to cover that if questioned.’
‘I have. My grandmother was an English woman, and had a major part in my upbringing. I have never lost the touch of her accent, which I latched on to at an early age.’ How easy it is to fit into the role!
Monsieur Ponté smiled. ‘Excellent. Already you a
re getting into character!’
Pierre cut in. ‘I must go, but I will see you later. By the way, you can ride a bike? You will get around everywhere on a bike.’
‘More used to horses, I’m afraid, but yes, they taught me how to ride a bike.’
‘Good. Well, you will find everything you need in your bedroom upstairs. Clothes, et cetera . . . though not what you are accustomed to . . .’
‘But au contraire. These last fifteen months have already put me into a different world, Pierre. I will be one of you. Forget my roots. Je suis une fille de la ville, d’une famille ordinaire qui est venue vivre dans cette région.’
‘You will never be an ordinary country girl to me, Mademoiselle Olivia.’ His face was tinged with red as Monsieur Ponté let out a knowing laugh – a laugh that soon turned to a warning look.
Pierre didn’t react. His leaving the room took something from it. Theresa mentally shook herself. They could not ignore the concern Monsieur Ponté had shown at the flirtation between them. It had been very unprofessional, and she didn’t want to dent the confidence these people had in her.
Nothing more was said about it. Instead, the discussion turned to how Monsieur Ponté had registered her as his niece at the town hall, and how all of her papers were in order and would be presented tomorrow. ‘There were no awkward questions. Our story gained us sympathy for both you and ourselves, and admiration that we were taking you in. Now, Madame,’ he addressed his wife, ‘see that our guest is made comfortable and has everything she needs. I will see you at closing time, Olivia. Pierre will be back. He is dining with us, though he will not arrive at the door – we have another entrance that leads from the sheds at the back. Access to them is through a neighbour’s garden, and Pierre lodges with that neighbour, so no one sees him come to the house as a friend of the family. He uses the shop entrance just to drop off any messages he has. Poor man has to buy many buns he doesn’t want!’
His laughter lightened the moment, and Theresa felt easy again. She chided herself for the lapse, and determined not to let her feelings interfere with her work from now on – a resolve she hoped she could keep. She was already missing Pierre’s presence.
London – 1963
Lizzie closed the book. She’d reached the end of the first one. So now Theresa was in France. She wondered what she would read next, but as always after going back into Theresa’s life she questioned her own. A glance in the mirror strengthened her determination to make changes. She had to if Theresa’s sacrifices were to mean anything to her – if she was to get anything from the experience of that brave woman. Without allowing herself time to think, and stopping only to hide the books, she swung herself onto the side of the bed. Weakness prevented her from sliding easily into her chair, but she managed it eventually. Feeling exhausted, she guided her wheelchair into the bathroom.
She had to admit her life would be much more difficult without the many aids Ken had put into the house for her. Getting into a hot bath would have been impossible without the help of others, which she wouldn’t have liked. Now, through a mist of steam, she looked at the bath filling up and the inviting bubbles forming from her foam bath essence, happy that they weren’t out of her reach. Turning the tap off, she slipped off her dressing gown and grabbed the sides of the hoist. Again it took a lot more effort than it used to take to shift herself onto its seat, but once there she pushed the lever that raised the hoist into the air. The manoeuvre was easy now and soon she was lowered into the bliss of the comforting warmth.
Lying back onto the non-slip pillow, she felt her whole body let go. Her eyes closed. A sudden draught shot them open. ‘Ken . . .!’ Her body trembled; her mouth dried. The moment held fear as he stared down at her, but a relief fragmented the terror as she recognized the absence of threat in his demeanour. Instead, he had the look of a frightened animal about him. ‘Ken, what’s wrong?’
‘They’re after me, sis. The big boys . . .’ His voice shook. A tear trickled from his eye and mingled with the liquid trail running from his nose. He wiped his hand across his face. ‘I – I’m in big trouble. I did a deal right under their noses and they found out. I’m dead meat . . .’
‘Oh, God, Ken. I warned yer. Rita warned yer . . . What’re yer going to do?’
‘We have to go. And go now.’
‘We? They won’t hurt me and Rita, will they?’
‘They will. They’ll stop at nothing. I ain’t bothered about that old cow Rita. They can fry her for all I care, but not you, sis. I can’t leave yer behind.’
‘I ain’t going, Ken. And yer can’t make me.’
‘Please, sis, please . . .’ A sob caught his voice in his throat. His fear transferred to her. She could feel her world falling around her. Where would they go? She couldn’t give her mind to it now, as she had to concentrate on stopping his regression, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to deal with anything. ‘Pull yourself together, Ken. You won’t be able to think right if you get into a state. I’ll be alright. Rita’s trying to get me away from here anyway—’
‘What? What’s that old cow up to? Trying to get yer away from me, that’s what . . . Well, she bleedin’ ain’t going to!’
‘Ken . . . Ken . . .’
Anger had reddened his face and shot him back to reality. He turned and left the bathroom. Terror once more seeped into her. Why, oh why had she told him?
Grabbing the hoist, she desperately hauled herself onto it and wrapped the towel she’d laid over it around her. She swung towards her chair and dropped into it with a thud. Releasing the hoist, she started to turn it around, but a noise froze any further action. The door opened. The phial glinted in the light from the small window. ‘No . . . no, Ken. Not that . . . Not that. I’ll come with yer. I will. But please, no more of that . . .’
Warding him off with every ounce of her strength, she managed to hold his hand inches from her thigh. ‘Don’t, Ken, please. I’ll do anything, but don’t do that . . . I can’t take it. I don’t want to be hooked on it.’ His eyes glazed over. Spittle dribbled from his mouth. His body slumped back onto the toilet.
‘Ken? Oh, Ken . . . Why?’ The words came through her sobs – weakening, wretched sobs. They joined his.
‘I’m done for, sis.’
There was no ‘sorry’ for hurting her, or for what he’d put her through these last weeks. He was just wallowing in his own fear, but at least he was easier to deal with when he was like this. ‘Look, how far will yer get with having to see to me all the time, eh? If yer go on your own, you’ll be across the Channel by nightfall. Your passport is still in date from that school trip yer went on. There’s still two years on it.’
‘Shuddup and let me think.’ His tone held aggression, but she didn’t take heed. ‘I’m not going with yer, Ken, I’m not. I’ll scream the place down.’
His head lifted. Evil pierced his eyes. ‘You’ll do as I say. If yer don’t, I’ll give yer this.’ He held the needle up and pointed it at her.
The fight left her. She hadn’t enough strength to ward him off a second time if he came at her. Her body shivered.
‘’Ere, sis, you’re getting cold. Come on, I’ll carry yer through and help yer to dress.’
‘You can carry me through, but I’ll dress meself.’
‘You just don’t need me any more, do yer? I did all of this for yer. All of it. I chased big money to see as everything were set up right for yer and you’ve not an ounce of thanks in yer for it. All it’s done has taken yer further away from me. You’re an ungrateful bitch!’
Fear trickled back into her. He still held the phial. He stared at her, his lip trembling as he spat out, ‘It’s all your fault that I’m in this fix. You bleedin’ set me dad into one of his fits by biting him. I were coping with the beating he were giving me. Mum shouldn’t have interfered . . . Fucking women . . . I hate the lot of yer!’
He lunged forward, but as he did the bathroom door flew open. ‘Leave her be, you bleedin’ animal!’ Rita stood in the doorway. Her
small frame seemed to have grown, and in her hand she held a rolling pin. It crashed down on Ken’s back. ‘Gerrout! Gerrout of here! Go on.’
Ken’s scream filled the space around them as another crushing blow hit his arm. The sickening sound of breaking bone brought the bile to Lizzie’s throat, stopping her calling out, but someone else did . . .
‘Stop it, Rita! Stop now!’
The unfamiliar voice took command. Lizzie looked up from where she cowered and saw a young woman of a similar age to herself standing in the doorway. Her beautiful face was coloured with anger, and was nearly as red as her hair. Shock held Lizzie from saying anything. The only noise now came from Ken. His pitiful sobs and cries of pain reverberated off the walls.
‘Get out of the way, Rita. Let me see to him. Sit on the toilet, you. Rita, get me something I can use as a splint. I saw you had some sticks in the bucket next to the fire . . . get me two of the longest of them and some bandages, or rip some sheeting up if you haven’t any bandages. Go on, hurry yourself!’
Whoever this was, she was a commanding figure. Her London accent had posh tones mixed in with it. Ken did as she told him.
‘What’s in the phial, eh? What were you going to put into your sister?’
‘Mind yer own fucking business! Who the fuck are yer, anyway?’
‘Right now, I’m someone who’ll get you out of pain, mate, and save your arm. Not that you’re deserving of it. So shut up with your language. It’s not called for.’
Ken didn’t protest.
‘So, come on. Tell me, is it a sedative of some sort?’
‘It’s heroin.’
‘Heroin! You vile creature. Rita told me you’d been at that, but I didn’t believe her. Right, mate, I’m fixing your arm then I’m calling the police.’
‘Oh no, you ain’t. Don’t even think of it, ’cos if yer do, I’ll tell them why you’re here. I reckon as they’ll be interested to know, missy. So button it and get on with bleedin’ shutting him up from hollering like the animal he is.’