by Mary Wood
Lizzie’s scream intensified Patsy’s anguish as it mingled with Rita’s and elongated her name. ‘Ri-i-i-t-aaaa! Nooooooooo. No—’
Both screams died at the same moment. A split second elapsed, and then came the sound of something heavy hitting the water . . . No . . . God, no! He’s thrown Rita over!
Within seconds the foot increased its pressure. Her body moved. Resisting as best she could, she once more lifted the knife and aimed it in the direction of where his foot was, but as she did he moved it and his hands came onto her back. She could not resist the power of the shove. The edge of the boat left her. Her body dropped . . . dropped . . .
Gasping as much air as she could into her lungs, she clamped her mouth to hold her breath in an effort to be ready. But the icy-cold smack of the water made her release some as the shock trembled through her.
The sack became a cloying net trapping her arms. Her lungs burned. She writhed and wriggled as she sank deeper and deeper with the weight of the bricks . . . help me . . . GOD HELP ME!
Breckton
The strain of not knowing had caused a tension between them during the long hours of waiting. Speculation of this possibility, and then that one, had given Harri a headache, but that came nowhere near to the pain in her heart at the thought that something might have happened to her sister.
Everyone had gathered: Mam and Dad; Granddad Jack and Grandma Dorothy and David; and, a few paces from her, Ian, whose stance showed his despair as he held his head in his hands. Her heart went out to him. Her granddad’s voice breaking into his heartache seemed like an intrusion, ‘Ian, lad. let’s go for a walk, eh? I’ve not seen owt of this garden and the hills beyond for a long time with how busy we’ve been around the farm. Get your gun and We’ll do a bit of shooting, what d’yer think?’
‘I’ll come too, Granddad. Eeh, it’s been ages since we just messed around. it’ll pass the time.’
‘Aye, that’ll be grand, David. And what about you, Harri? The fresh air will do you good. Come on, lass, there’s nowt we can do and we ain’t achieving owt by sitting around here going around the houses with what we think has happened.’
Ian didn’t move. She knew how he felt. It seemed like a betrayal to leave the house and not be in when the phone rang. As it must do soon. It must . . . ‘I just want to be here, ta, Granddad. I just want to wait for news.’
‘Alright, lass. Come on then, me lads. Let’s away and do something to take our minds off of everything.’
Ian stood up as if driven by an outside force. Never one to assert what he wanted, he would go along and do as his granddad said. Not that she thought he shouldn’t, as Granddad was being sensible and trying to help the situation, but she wanted Ian for once to do as he wanted to do, not what others suggested. It was this pliability that didn’t appeal to the strong-willed Patsy, who clearly thought of him as a bit of a wimp. This saddened Harri, because she knew he wasn’t. She’d found more of an understanding for his feelings since they’d had that little talk in the garden and knew that this trait of his was misunderstood, and was more because he was loving and kind and thought what others wanted was more important than his own needs.
As the door shut on the little party, her mother asked, ‘Did the police say owt about how Theresa Crompton was, Richard? I forgot to ask you with everything that’s happened.’
More distracting conversation. This was driving her mad! She didn’t care about Theresa Crompton or anyone else. She just wanted to know that Patsy was safe.
‘Yes, I asked after her. He said she was doing well. Some of her confusion is lifting, which will be down to the care she is having. She was near starving, apparently. And when I told him of Rita, he said that Miss Crompton has already mentioned that lady.’
‘In the context of now, or in the past?’
‘They think Rita may have been the woman who has been visiting.’
‘Oh? Well, that could be good. If she were still looking out for Theresa and she thought as she were hurt and going to die, then she’d think on about her daughter and that could be a reason for her contacting Patsy.’
‘Stop this! I – I mean . . . Oh, I’m sorry. I . . .’ The tears that had threatened tumbled from her.
‘Harri, darling?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry, Mam, I didn’t mean to shut you up. I – I just can’t take any more speculation. I just want Patsy back.’
‘We know, love. It’s been a long night and I doubt that you slept any of it. Here, dry your eyes. Come on, lass. Getting yourself in a state won’t help matters.’
‘No, it won’t, dear. Your mam is right.’ Grandma Dorothy had come over to her. ‘Patsy will be alright. We have to think like that. Hope is our best weapon, and if we let go of that We’ll have no defences. Talking through things gives us hope. Coming up with outcomes that are good gives us hope.’
‘I know. I just feel so helpless. I should have gone with her.’
‘She wouldn’t let you. Now, come on, love. Help me make a cuppa for everyone. I’m parched, or as me granna used to say, me throat’s like it’s filled with the sand at the bottom of a bird cage.’
As they went towards the kitchen her mam leaned towards her and whispered, ‘Actually that were a bit tame for me granna. She were more likely to compare stuff with the more private parts of her body. I remember her once saying as her throat were as dry as her fanny—’
‘Eeh, Mam!’
A silence followed this for a moment. Into it Harri felt a giggle bubbling inside her. Eeh, I wish I’d have met me Great Granna Issy! I reckon her and me are two peas in a pod. Dry as her fanny, ha! The thought broke the strain in her and the giggle won. Her mam looked like she were bursting to laugh out loud too.
Dorothy followed them in. ‘What’s so funny, then? Come on, I could do with a laugh.’
‘I were telling Harri about me granna. Eeh, me granna. She were a one. You dreaded to think what would come out of her next. You hadn’t to be a prude. Not where she was. By, I miss her. I miss all of them . . .’ As her mam said this she picked up the kettle off the hob and walked over to the sink. Harri watched her as she stopped and looked heavenwards and said, ‘Come on you lot, work your magic and make things reet—’
As if all them that had gone before were answering her, the phone rang. No one moved for a moment. Two rings, then a third . . .
They all dashed into the hall. Her dad stood staring at the phone. Then his eyes found hers. Fear gave them a staring, pleading expression. ‘Answer it, Dad.’
Her heart seemed to stop as the ringing sound cut off. She stood close straining to hear. Her dad asked few questions; whoever was on the line was giving him all the information. As they did so his face drained of colour. ‘We’ll come straight away, thank you.’ Replacing the receiver he turned and said, ‘They’ve found her . . .’
No one reacted. Her dad’s voice shook. ‘She . . . she’s . . . very seriously injured. A man pulled her from the Thames. We have to go. There isn’t . . . she doesn’t have much time . . .’
The moan started in her bowels and racked her body as it travelled to her throat. ‘No . . . No . . .’
‘Don’t, Harri, don’t.’
Her mam’s face held an anguish she’d never seen in it before as she whispered these words. Dorothy’s arms came around her. Together they supported her as it seemed she had nothing left in her. Patsy . . . Oh God, Patsy. I can’t lose you . . . I can’t.
Fourteen
Spiral Downwards and Theresa’s Encounter
London 1963 and France 1943
The wetness Lizzie lay in chilled her body. The stench of her own urine sickened and shamed her, and stung the sores on her buttocks. She’d held on for as long as she could, but her screams and then her desperate pleas for help had gone unanswered. Her wretched sobs of grief had exhausted her. Her mind couldn’t take in all that had happened. The thought of Patsy and Rita sinking down into the black, murky depths of the river was too much for her. Please, God, let Patsy have
escaped the sack and swum to safety. And Rita . . . Oh, I can’t bear it!
Curling the top half of her body, she managed to shift her legs with her hands and turn them more towards the wall, which meant she could get some of herself off the stinking, soaked sheet beneath her.
What was her dad capable of? Murder, yes, but would he do that to her? Would he really leave her without help to freeze or starve to death? And where was he? After he’d thrown Patsy over the side of the boat, he’d dragged her from the wheel and carried her back down here into the dark cabin. She’d told him then that she needed the lavatory, but he’d taken no notice of her. He’d thrown something onto the bed and left.
The boat had come to a halt soon after. Maybe that was his way of saving her? Maybe he’d gone, and in the morning she could call out for help again, or perhaps he’d alert someone.
Shivering with fear of the eerie silence, broken only by the hoot of an owl and the splish-splash sound of the water rocking the boat, she tugged at the blanket he’d thrown over her and pulled it further around the top half of her. This exposed her legs, but that would be the least uncomfortable for her, as she couldn’t feel them anyway. Something knocked against the wall. Feeling for it, her hand clasped what felt like a torch. That must be what her dad had thrown. Oh, thank God!
Its beam lit the cabin, illuminating the case Rita had brought with her. Could she reach it without falling off the bunk?
Sweat mingled with tears of frustration as every effort proved futile. Only the tips of her fingers reached the top of the case. She had to do something! She would freeze if she didn’t, as the balmy August evening had turned into a cold night.
Deciding she would be better off on the floor with access to dry clothes, she rolled the blanket and threw it down. It would cushion her fall. It wasn’t that far to the ground anyway.
Thank God. Rita had put in one of her warm jumpers and some underwear, and yes, the thick slacks she wore in her wheelchair. The relief these items brought had her crying again, only this time not from despair. Practised at dressing herself, it didn’t take long before some warmth began to creep back into her.
She remembered there were some steps to the right of her, which she assumed went down to the galley. For a moment she considered pulling herself along on her hands, to see if she could get down there and find a drink. But she decided against it, as she’d never get back up again and no one would hear her from down there. There was just a chance Rita had put the bottle of Coca-Cola from her bedside cabinet into the case. Her search proved fruitless, but then, if she had found it how would she have opened it? Rita wouldn’t have thought to put a bottle opener in.
Just as she was about to take her hand out of the case she stopped, as it brushed against what had to be Theresa’s books. The joy of this discovery took away her thirst and all her needs. Pulling them out lifted her spirits further. She could roll herself in the blanket and read about Theresa. She always lost all sense of herself when she did this. Please let that happen now . . .
Theresa – Late January 1943
The German officer stood by the counter, eyeing her up and down. In other circumstances she would have found him attractive: very tall, fair hair, striking blue eyes and a square, determined chin. ‘Hired new help, Monsieur Ponté? See, I told you we Germans would bring prosperity to your village. Ha, it will be good to have new blood around here. What is your name, mademoiselle?’
‘She is my niece from Paris. My sister died. We are taking care of her.’
‘Has she no tongue? What is your name, mademoiselle?’
‘Olivia, monsieur. Olivia Danchanté.’
‘Olivia. I like that. Olivia Danchanté. Well, Olivia, you will deliver our bread order to us and you will ask for me. I would like to have a conversation with you away from your uncle.’
‘But I have done nothing wrong, monsieur.’
‘No, you haven’t, but there is something you can do right . . .’
‘Monsieur, you should not speak to her like that. It is an insult to her and to me.’
Theresa jumped as the German’s cane rapped on the counter, his anger bringing forth more German words than French ones. ‘You have taken my remark in the wrong way. I meant no insult. You will send her with our order! Good day, Monsieur Ponté. It is lucky for you that you are the only baker in the area.’
As he turned on his heel and left, Monsieur Ponté looked over at her. ‘That is not good, Olivia. We have to contact Pierre. He will be at work now. There is an order for the bank canteen. I will take that and get word to him. Madame Ponté, you will have to hold the fort here. Get the German’s order out quickly, and Olivia, don’t do anything to upset Herr Gunter.’
His eyes held a message. Was she to prostitute herself, then? Because the intention of the officer had been clear in his expression. Fear trickled into her. How was she to handle this? Her refusal of him could bring trouble, if not harm, to the Pontés.
Her fear was compounded by watching Monsieur Ponté hurrying across to the bank. If she was compromised, the whole operation could collapse!
‘Here is the order for the officers, Olivia. Hurry . . . And, Olivia, be careful. Herr Gunter can be a pleasant man, but if crossed he is evil and swift in his revenge. The younger women around here have all had to fraternize with him. He threatens . . . no, he carries out atrocities on their families if they do not.’
‘Why didn’t anyone think of this scenario? I could have worked in the backroom, or perhaps disguised myself, padded my body so I looked overweight . . . Anything . . .’ She could hear her own voice rising in panic. She had to stop this. She’d just have to use all her ingenuity. And if she had to . . . well, a shag was a shag, wasn’t it? Except it wasn’t, not any more. At this moment she knew that her old self had truly gone, and the only person she ever wanted to sh— No, that word didn’t fit what she wanted to do with Pierre. She wanted to love him, to make love to him, to give her body and soul to him. These were already tainted, but how much more spoiled they would be if she had to lie with Herr Gunter . . .
‘We did think, but there was nothing we could do.’
She wanted to scream at the woman, to tell her she had betrayed the Resistance. They could have made sure Derwent knew the danger for a young woman in this area, but the thought occurred: if they knew, then so did Pierre. Had he been willing to sacrifice whichever young woman had come here?
‘Besides, you will get vital information if you are cunning.’
‘You mean all of this is part of the plan?’ But no, it couldn’t be. Otherwise, why would Monsieur Ponté have run to Pierre? Wait a minute . . . Was he expecting her to be willing? Was the reason he had to be told because she showed signs of not cooperating? Had Derwent sent her in particular, knowing of her loose morals? Was this an unspoken part of the assignment? Derwent’s face came to her, his leering at her as he praised her ‘many talents’. I’ve been bloody stupid! I really thought I had been chosen because I had shown courage, tenacity and that I could master the needed skills. Now I think I was chosen because of my past . . . Sold like a piece of meat . . . Well, I’ll show them they can’t do that to me.
‘Ahh, Mademoiselle Danchanté. Come in.’
As soon as she’d arrived at the German garrison, she had been shown into Herr Gunter’s office. He’d stood as she entered and proffered her a bow accompanied by a clip of his heels. ‘Our mystery woman, eh? Coming out of the blue into our lives, from Paris, no less. Oh là là, as they say. Tell me, what was the weather like when you left?’ His French was good, but his German inflection meant she had to listen very hard to what he said. His question caught her off-guard. No one had prepared her for this!
‘But, monsieur, it is well known that summer in Paris is always warm, is it not?’
‘A cunning and evasive answer, but not one that fits this time of year.’
‘I know, but I left a few months ago. I travelled to my aunt’s first.’
‘Oh? Well, we haven’t been able to
trace when you left, so that would account for it.’
He seemed convinced, but she wasn’t sure. Her heart pounded with an unsteady rhythm. She willed herself to keep calm.
‘Tell me, why have you an English accent to your French?’
This shot a shock through her.
‘Herr Brugen is a language expert. He is the one who asked you to wait in the hall a moment. I believe he held you in conversation for a moment or two?’
Lifting her head, she answered with all the conviction she could. ‘My grandmother was English, and I spent a lot of time with her as a young child learning to talk. I copied her pronunciation. Much of it has left me over the years, but people do still say I have a trace of it.’
The silence and the scrutiny that followed this unnerved her. Was she compromised? Would he arrest her, even? Oh, God!
‘So, we have a young woman suddenly in our midst. She has an English accent to her French, oh, but yes, there is also a great deal of the Paris slant to it, I am told. What am I to believe?’
‘You can check my credentials and my papers. Everything is in order. You can check the fact that my mother died.’
‘Oh, yes, I have all of these things, but these can be arranged. Heaven and earth can be moved in a war. So, let us talk about London, it is suffering for its stubborn stance, but we will win it over – we will bring it to its knees, but not by negotiation. Don’t you blame them for the plight of France?’
She was nearly tripped by the sudden switch in his conversation, and by the fact that he’d spoken in English. For a moment she’d been ready with an angry retort – a retort that had shot into her mind also in English, but just in time she had swallowed the words and switched her mindset to French. ‘I am sorry, Herr Gunter, but I did not understand all that you said in English. I have very little of that language. Grandmother did try to teach me, but . . .’
‘Very clever.’