by Milly Adams
She answered, ‘Thank you.’
That day the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was so dreadfully lonely. ‘Mummy,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Mummy, I miss you. Every day I miss you.’
She poured more gin. There was only a dribble. She dropped the bottle on the carpet and lay on the settee, her head swimming, hurting; beating in time with her pulse.
No-one else knocked until the ninth day. ‘Aunt Kate, Aunt Kate, it’s me, Lizzy. There’s a dead rose here. Did you know? It’s gone quite brown, and it should be red. We called at the club, and Tony said you were here.’
Kate could barely lift herself into a sitting position. Her mouth was sour, and she smelled of sweat. She thought she was hearing things. She stood and her legs buckled. She fell, forcing herself onto all fours.
Sarah said, ‘Come along, Kate, do please answer the door. I know you’ve had a bit of bad luck, but time to pull yourself together. There’s a war on, after all.’
Kate stood again and tried to speak. Her throat was so dry. She struggled to the sink, ran the tap and caught cool water in her cupped hands. She drank. ‘Wait a moment. I’m in the middle of changing. I am off to an interview.’
She struggled to the bathroom, ripping off her clothes and washing her face and armpits. She cleaned her teeth, slapped on perfume. It was Cheryl’s. Well, she’d said that anything left was hers. She coiled her hair into a pleat. In the bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, the window open and the wardrobe door swinging in the wind, she dragged on a pencil skirt. It hung loosely on her, and she added a pale-pink blouse. Without renewing her make-up, the new bruise was visible, but there was no time.
Back in the sitting room again, she kicked the gin bottles under the table, thankful that the open window had seen to it that there was no smell. She hadn’t even unpacked her suitcase, which was still there, by the door.
She ran her hands down her clothes. She didn’t have to wear shoes; she was at home, for heaven’s sake. She walked across and opened the door, her head thumping.
Lizzy gasped. ‘You look so poorly.’
Sarah looked startled too. ‘They didn’t say you’d been ill, just that you and Bruce had broken up. And what’s that bruise?’
Lizzy said, ‘I expect she’s walked into another door. Did you, Aunt Kate? You should look where you’re going.’
‘Yes, I caught it on the wardrobe door, but I’ll be fine. What are you doing here?’
Sarah put both hands on Lizzy’s shoulders, keeping the child still. ‘May we come in?’
Kate stood aside as they passed into the sitting room.
‘Father would be pleased. It’s nicer than I thought it would be,’ Sarah said.
‘Every one a gem, Sarah,’ Kate murmured.
Sarah flushed, ‘Oh, Kate, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that this flat looks as though it belongs in the country. Such lovely wallpaper, and the dresser over there.’
Kate looked at her curiously. Her sister really seemed to mean it.
‘What can I do for you both?’ That was as much as she could manage, but before Sarah could speak, Lizzy almost shouted, ‘Please, please come back. Mum has to go away, and I won’t mind her going, if you come and look after me. It will be for ages, and Tony said you weren’t working there any more, so please come.’
Sarah was holding her daughter’s shoulders again. Her daughter, Kate reminded herself, and shook her head. It was too much for Sarah to ask this of her, as it had been right from the start. She allowed herself to remember how the pain of giving birth had been nothing, compared to the pain of seeing her child taken away by the nurse the moment the midwife cut the cord, saying, ‘It’s best for the child, and for you. Then you can forget.’
Sarah had brought the baby into the room the following morning and had allowed Kate to hold her, just once. Her baby had snuffled and turned her head, searching for Kate’s breast, but it was then that Sarah had snatched her back. Lizzy, as yet unnamed, had cried as they left the room, leaving Kate with a pain far worse than any fallen beam across her back.
Lizzy whispered now, ‘Please, please come back.’
Kate said, ‘Absolutely not. I must find another job. I still have a chance at a break when a producer comes over from America in December, so I have to keep up my professional status, and that’s that. But let me make you a cup of tea before you leave.’ It was all she could do to speak without weeping. She was saying goodbye once more to her daughter. But she must, in order to survive.
The sink was in front of the window. The kettle stood on the draining board. The water in it would be too old. She poured it away and filled it, switching it on. Her sister gripped Kate’s arm and whispered, ‘Listen to me, Kate. I am a FANY, but I am more than that. I can’t tell you what, but let me just say that I will need my French language and my knowledge of France – or I will, if I get through the second stage of my training. It’s something the country needs, and it’s what I can do to try and find Derek. If I don’t come back from wherever it is I’m going, our child – yours and mine – will need a mother. Now, will you agree that it has to be you?’
The two women stared out of the window while the kettle hissed and hawed on its journey towards boiling. Somewhere a policeman blew his whistle. Kate hoped he wasn’t chasing after Stevie, the toerag whose life she had saved, because it would be a waste of her efforts. Suddenly she wondered who had been receiving the monthly gift that Stevie usually brought to the club. Well, what did it matter?
The kettle was boiling. She scooped tea into the teapot. The caddy was almost full. Ah, so Brucie had brought the toerag’s gift here. Stevie sometimes managed to acquire tea, but would never say from where. She should refuse it, but she didn’t.
Sarah said, ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, I heard you, but you have no right to go into danger, when you have taken on the responsibility for a child. No right, do you hear?’
They were both whispering. ‘It’s too late. I’ve done it, and it’s necessary. And I knew that Lizzy would never be alone because you exist.’
Kate poured tea for them both, and a glass of water for Lizzy, who was sitting on the sofa, swinging her legs. ‘You’ll have to have it black, I haven’t any milk.’
‘Aren’t you going to answer?’ Sarah asked.
‘Just tell me one thing. You promised you were definitely going to find a nanny. Did you even try?’
Sarah looked at Kate, then out of the window. ‘No.’
Kate nodded. ‘You’ll do well at a job that depends on you living a lie, but at least you have, for a moment, been honest. Highly ironic, don’t you think, sister dear? You, the apple of Father’s eye, his mirror image; rectitude personified, someone who despises those who lie – or so you both declared eight years ago. For God’s sake, Derek’s a big boy; let him defend himself, and you stay and look after that wonderful child you chose, and have loved. The child you have brought up, protected. You can’t walk away from Lizzy now, it’s not fair on her. She loves you so much.’
‘I know, and I love her, but life is not simple at the moment, not for anyone. Look, Kate, there is work that must be done by those who can do it, and that includes me. What is simple is that I know now that you will love her; in fact, that you do love her. So will you come back, or will I have to find a stranger to take over my role, if I don’t return? Don’t make this any harder than it already is for me, please, Kate.’
In that moment Kate hated Sarah more than she had ever done, but at the same time, and for the first time, she admired her. This woman had chosen a role that required residues of courage and commitment the like of which most people could only dream of. They were attributes that Kate, for one, had never guessed her sister possessed. The words of ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ ran through her mind, even as her emotions raged: ‘What to do? What to do?’
Chapter Eleven
The train journey to Scotland was full of stops and starts. A condition of Sarah and the other remaining trainees
embarking on this next stage of their training was that they had been given new identities. The utmost secrecy was imperative, even in training. Sarah – now Gabrielle to her fellow operatives – slept most of the way. They should have continued with the commando side of the course in the final week of their first month of training, but something had intervened, although no-one knew what. So here they were, a small group, an amalgamation of those who had passed the training thus far.
It had been strange to change over to her own language in Little Worthy, and for the first few days Sarah had to consciously remember to alter her inflection; and it was strange to talk English to these others now.
At Glasgow they transferred to a smaller train, and then a lorry. Before they were driven off, they were instructed to revert to French. Only one other girl had survived the first month, and now she was known as Darcel. They sat opposite one another amongst three men, all British. The Norwegians, Dutch, Poles and others were trained separately. Sarah saw the sense of this as they jolted along. If, in due course, any were captured, they would know fewer agents to betray.
As she arrived, she allowed herself to think of Lizzy, just this once. One day she would bring Lizzy here, to these heather-covered moors. They would gaze at the raptors gliding on the thermals, and paddle in streams hurtling off the high hills. One day she, Derek and Lizzy would go on to live the life they should.
As they jumped down from the back of the covered lorry she thought of Kate. Mrs Summers had assured her that Kate had grown into a wonderful girl, that she had handled Lizzy beautifully, that there had been no alternative but for her to take Lizzy to London; and the child had never been allowed into the nightclub proper. Instead Lizzy had learned how to make a batter with very few eggs. Mrs Summers had added that many in the village liked Kate, and more would, as the insanely ambitious village show Anything Goes got under way.
Sarah gritted her teeth as the instructor had them running into the grand house, which seemed more of a castle on the edge of the loch, their baggage clunking against their sides. She stampeded with the others into a vast changing room, where they marked time as two instructors looked them up and down. Had her father been alive, there would have been no problem, because he could have overseen any nanny; but he wasn’t. So there was nothing she could do about things now except forge ahead.
She and Darcel shared a room, crashing to sleep at the end of each day. There was practice, practice, practice with Sten guns, tommy guns, revolvers and rifles. After two days they changed from blanks to bullets, which thudded into stuffed straw targets that she imagined as the enemy, as men who would do her harm, do her country harm. Increasingly Sarah pulled the trigger with venom, because these people were stopping her from living the life she had dreamed of. She supposed she was slightly off her head, because nothing was real any more, except France, except doing something, except winning this war and bringing her family back together.
The days sped by in a blur of exhaustion, concentration and appalling noise as they hurled hand grenades and bombs. Sarah thought of the vicar and his hideous scarring, the false eye. Could that be her? She shut her mind. There could be no flinching, no recalling of the past, for soon who knew how many seconds, hours, days or – the greatest prize, weeks – they would survive in France. Did the other trainees, Bernard, Javier, Carel and Darcel, think these thoughts? She’d never know. Neither would she know if they thought about the three-month or so life-expectancy of an agent and the six-week life-expectancy of wireless operators.
From weapon instruction, they moved on to assault courses, then to crawling through bogs and burns, cycling across fields and along tracks at speed, hurling the bikes over gates, hiding beneath hedges – anything to escape, anything to prevent capture and possible betrayal of your comrades, by you.
As time wore on, the five of them stalked a copse on the trail of an enemy, all of them trying to remember the instructor’s advice, all of them swallowing midges as they breathed through their mouths to restrict any noise. They were so alert that their heads ached, as they strained every fibre to listen and look, but were nonetheless captured by their ‘enemy’ instructors, who rose from beneath layers of leaves and branches to ensnare them. ‘You should have noticed the broken twigs, the stub of a cigarette, the footprint.’ The trainees would have been dead or captured.
The next day they spread out and went hunting again, heading for the river, knowing that somewhere the ‘enemy’ lurked. They used cover, speed and silence, employing their ears and eyes. They smelled cigarette smoke and froze. They signalled one another and flanked the prey. They waited; the instructor moved and they sprayed him with blanks. They were lacerated by his words: ‘Take me alive, if at all possible. Question me, you bastard idiots. Don’t ever, ever kill me unless it’s a last resort, because you don’t want hostages taken in revenge for the death of one of the bastards. We are teaching you to fight, and kill, in order to hone your focus and determination, but use that skill sparingly.’
Their pride turned to chagrin.
They trudged back, absorbing the instructor’s words. But they examined them in French, they dreamed in French, they were French, and hoped they would never be responsible for hostages being shot in reprisal. Every spare moment Sarah reminded herself she was Gabrielle. She did not remind herself that she liked Bernard, or his deep-set eyes, though he reminded her of Derek. It was probably a good thing that he reminded Sarah of Derek, because somehow her husband was fading from her memory. Try as she might, after so long it was hard to keep him alive. It had been so long. And even though Sarah was searching for Derek, she was also finding herself along the way.
The next day Sarah followed Bernard as they made their way along the lee of the ridge on a hill, which was so high it was almost a mountain. The hair curled on his collar. He turned. ‘Gabrielle, your turn to take the lead.’
The wind tore at them. Darcel closed up as Sarah took her place, panting as she drove forward, her grip on her machine gun never faltering. They had lost Javier, who had been able to keep up and cope with sleeping out overnight in the wet and cold; when ‘attacked’ by instructors, he had shouted in English. He’d already had his one chance. So too Carel, who had passed the twenty-five-mile trek, but foundered twice on the canoe course.
The following day Sarah, Bernard and Darcel were taught how to gauge the charge needed for demolition, and were tasked to explode some derelict bridges. That same day, as day became night, they blacked up and crept out wearing balaclavas, heading across to the Norwegian centre. They jemmied their way in and relieved the mess of its gin, then arrived back to find the Norwegians just leaving the British premises. They passed, like silent ships in the night, unwilling to acknowledge one another. The three of them sat in the mess and toasted to the success of their mission – in French of course.
Bernard grinned. ‘I am enjoying this drink all the more because I saw an interloper over by the rhododendrons yesterday at dusk. I sneaked up, heard his Norwegian. I happen to speak a little and knew they were on the way this evening, so I watered our gin and left the bottles visible.’
‘Of course you just happen to speak Norwegian,’ Sarah said drily, raising an eyebrow at Darcel, who commented, ‘Of course you watered it, but just remember: no-one likes a smart-arse.’ The girls sipped the gin. Together they said, ‘Except someone who gets it right.’ They finished the bottle. Sarah staggered to bed, happy with her persona, because as Gabrielle she could misbehave, whereas Sarah didn’t know how to.
The next day their heads ached, and the ground seemed to move beneath Sarah’s legs as she eyed the horizontal ropes slung high up, one above the other, between two trees; they were swaying in the breeze. ‘Climb up, go across, then climb down,’ the instructor ordered.
Darcel screwed up her face. ‘I hate heights.’
‘Not as much as you’ll hate me, if you don’t shift your arse and get up those trees. And I hear that the Norwegians got the worst of it last night.’
Sar
ah said, ‘Actually, Sergeant, I think it’s evens. I have a head fit to burst.’
Sergeant Alton shouted, making them all wince, even clever-clogs Bernard, ‘Do you think I care? Do you think the bastards who are chasing you will care? All they want to do is catch you. Gabrielle, you can stop looking as though you’re going to be sick, and get yourself up there first, and don’t bloody dawdle. Just imagine I’m a big Hun on your tail, breathing fire and about to do more than eat you.’
She started to climb, seeing the short metal rods that had been banged into the sides to give them a bit of help, but only every so often. Her rifle was slung over her head and shoulder, safety on. It was like a third arm that wouldn’t do as it was told. ‘Get a bloody move on, we haven’t all day. I’d have grabbed you by now.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ She didn’t get a bloody move on, but just kept going, which was a miracle, as she felt as though she would vomit any minute, hopefully over the sergeant. She breathed deeply. It was what her father had told her when they had taken the ferry across to France, to start her time as a nanny. At Calais they had met Monsieur Arnaud, whose children would be in her care. Her father had kissed her cheek in farewell. ‘We will see you when we see you,’ he had said. Now, as she reached for another branch, using her body to swing the rifle clear, she remembered that Kate and her mother had been there too. Kate had clung to Sarah, saying, ‘I don’t want you to leave us.’
Her mother had died while she had been in France. She paused as she reached the rope. Paused as she looked along the two ropes to the other tree. She hadn’t returned for her mother’s funeral, as her father felt there was no need. She hadn’t felt there was, either, because she was happy in France and had only a few months until she was to return for her wedding.
As she placed her foot on the rope, she felt it give and sway. The vomit rose. She swallowed. The ground blurred as tears brewed. She hadn’t gone back for her mother’s funeral: how? Why? What sort of a daughter was she, what sort of a sister? She had been happy, but Kate wasn’t, after their mother’s death. Sarah had written, but still she hadn’t returned. What about Derek? Had she missed him when she was away? Of course she hadn’t, because he had come across often to see her. Kate had begged Sarah to let her come to France too, just once, because she was even more lonely after Topsy died. They had said no, because they didn’t want a gooseberry.