by Milly Adams
He examined his feelings for the doctor yet again, here in the light and goodness of the hall, but his anger was mainly at himself.
Mrs Woolton was now looking at him strangely.
‘I’m sorry, I was miles away,’ Tom said.
‘I said, I will make you a costume. Our Kate will get you up to scratch, you mark my words.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’
He moved on, towards the stage, but Pauline had risen and intercepted him. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘Looking for my notebooks. I found them, but so did you.’
‘Indeed. We both know the truth now about that young lady, if one can use the term.’ Pauline laughed. It was an unpleasant sound.
Tom said, drawing her towards the double doors of the hall, then out into the darkness of the lobby and finally outside, ‘Truth?’ He kept his voice calm, because who knew what made this woman as she was, and he must despise her actions, and not her.
‘Yes, darling. I know you like your little snug, but I need to be part of everything in your life, as I’m to be your wife. It’s appalling to read the truth of that little madam and her lies. No wonder you have changed your tune about her.’
‘So, you didn’t read to the end? If you had, you would have seen that you are wrong – we all are. She did tell the truth.’
Pauline laughed again. ‘Nonsense. Her sort are no better than they ought to be. She asked for whatever happened to her in those woods, and now you say she told the truth. Exactly how do you know that?’
He sighed, because he was no better than this woman, not really. He said, ‘Pauline, those books are private; they are not to be discussed.’
‘Oh, darling, don’t be such a softie. Use your common sense and take a look at her, showing off in there. I know you like to believe the best of people, but honestly.’
Tom took off his coat. ‘Put this round you. We are going to the vicarage to collect anything you have left there. We are then going to the pub, and you will leave tomorrow morning. This can’t go on. You don’t love me, and I don’t love you, and if you ever so much as breathe a word about what is in those diaries, I will tell your employer that you have lied about needing compassionate leave. Please bear in mind that, in wartime, I expect there is some sort of penalty for not satisfactorily pursuing or performing war work.’
She pulled away from him, as he hustled her down the High Street. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘I mean it, Pauline. I will phone whoever needs to know, if I don’t get that solemn promise from you. And if I don’t, I will also publish the truth about the diaries. You will be the only one to suffer.’
He waited in the kitchen while she collected her books, a pen and a scarf. ‘If you have left anything, I will send it on.’
He marched her to the village hall and found her coat on the hook and her hat. He held her coat, and all Pauline could do was put it on. He wore his own, which smelled of her perfume, but he would air it tomorrow. He walked her to the pub.
‘I will order a taxi for you. It will arrive at eight in the morning. I will not be there to see you off. Enjoy your life, Pauline. And I’m sorry I haven’t spent more time with you and made you understand that we have no future together. You are a good woman, but the way you are behaving is sad beyond measure. Change, for your own sake, I beg you. Just as I must.’
She slapped him. It stung. ‘You’re hideous anyway, Tom Rees. And what makes you think that Kate will want you – because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s to do with my failure as a man of God. I must do better. I must believe without proof, I must feel it in my heart.’ He was aware that he was thumping his chest.
He turned on his heel and walked to the village hall. He hung up his coat, his scarf and hat and entered again into the light, making his way to the table at which Stella sat. She was making notes on one of her endless lists. The chorus was going through its moves, and they too had put on tap shoes, so there was a general clattering, but no uniformity, and no cohesion in their singing and swinging arms. He knew there would be. He nodded at Kate, who looked surprised. She checked behind her, then back at him. He mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’
She didn’t understand, so he went to the edge of the stage and she bent down.
He said, ‘I’m sorry to be so grouchy. It was unforgivable, but I needed to make some decisions. They are made.’ He wanted to smooth her hair back. He held up his right hand. ‘Friends again. A new beginning?’
Kate contemplated his hand, and for a terrible moment he thought she might not forgive him. He shouldn’t have doubted her, and her integrity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Truly.’
She looked into his eyes for a long moment and he held his breath as he waited. He’d beg, if he had to.
At last Kate took Tom’s hand and shook it, nodded her appreciation of his apology, and then took her place back with the children. ‘Just once more, then we must let you go home, children. And Mrs B too, who will immediately nip into the pub for a snifter.’
Mrs B called up, ‘Really, Miss Watson, why would I stop at one, after a few hours here?’
The children and Kate looked at one another in surprise, then laughed.
Mrs B embarked on the introduction to ‘Anything Goes’, calling to Tom, ‘And Pauline? Where’s she disappeared to?’
He came and stood by her, turning the page for her. ‘Home, Mrs B. It took me a while, but she’s gone and is not returning.’
Mrs B sniffed. ‘Ah, well, as long as you are happy with that.’
‘Relieved, Mrs B.’
Happy? He looked around, feeling that he was on the way, now that he understood rather more about life, or God, or perhaps people. Or maybe all three.
Chapter Eighteen
On 24th November 1942 Sarah was given permission to proceed by the sentry, at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Rouen. All the while the hen clucked away in its crate. Perhaps the clucking would mean an egg one day. She lived in hope. She had said as much to Romain, whose hen it was, and he had shrugged, as a grizzled old Frenchman would. He kept them at the bottom of his rose garden. ‘Manure for the roses and flesh for the pot, and eggs for omelettes,’ he had said.
Romain was a Frenchman who was determined to risk his life to regain his country’s democracy and sovereignty. One way was to leave the bike and crate for Sarah, in a different place every day; just in case. Everything was just in case, and if they forgot, it might be the last time they did.
She left behind the German corporal who had checked her documents and gestured her through. He called after her, ‘Don’t forget the curfew tonight, or the chicken might get shot and put in the pot. It might anyway.’ His comrades laughed; Sarah laughed too, waving goodbye without turning. So often the same remarks, but as long as they didn’t stop her, it was fine.
As she cycled away, she always felt vulnerable. She thrust the pedals round faster and faster, as though she could outrun a bullet. The thought made her laugh again. She did a lot of that at the moment, which was why Bernard said she was nearly due for leave. Her stint would be coming to an end in a month, which was when a Lysander would at last be arriving. She would be on it. But first there was the drop tomorrow, or perhaps the next night, whichever was clear of cloud and rain and allowed the full moon to beam down.
She cycled over cobbled road after cobbled road, passing tall French houses, each one seeming to prop the other up in long terraced rows. Soon these terraces thinned and she was in the countryside, heading for her Uncle Pierre’s, or so she had told the corporal. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like: going home, feeling safe, not sleeping with every sense tuned into the air temperature: is that a draught? Tuned into noise: is that a creak? Perhaps she’d even get rid of the cough she had acquired, and her chest would improve and stop wheezing.
It had all been worth it, because she and Bernard had gathered together four groups, and no-one appeared to have been lost to the Gest
apo. But had they been turned? There was nothing to suggest it. She coughed, then smiled. Bernard should be returning from elsewhere today, having conducted a training session on explosives with one of the groups. Importantly, the new ‘George’ was still with them, moving from safe place to safe place every day. The old George had magically been transported south and over the Pyrenees, out of danger, as long as he managed to escape internment in Franco’s Spain, which he was clever enough to do.
She stopped at a crossroads, holding onto her bike as a German convoy tore along the top road. She tightened her tatty old headscarf and knotted it beneath her chin. She wound her woollen one round her neck again. German troops sat in the back of an uncovered truck, bringing up the rear of the convoy, scattering dirt and mud. One soldier waved. She lifted a hand in return. Her gloves had holes in the palms, her feet had chilblains, she had mouth ulcers, her hands shook.
The convoy passed. She crossed the main road on her way to give a third training session to Group 2. This time it was in sabotage. They should all be making their way to the woods that hid the landing ground from prying eyes. They would have created cover stories, and she had trained them to spot ‘shadows’ and to take a different route each time.
She cycled past the wood and then back. She waved as though towards someone and headed up a path. It couldn’t possibly be called a track. She waved again. There was no-one, of course; she was acting. Kate would be surprised. Well, everyone in Little Worthy would be surprised to see the upright, morally certain daughter of the verger living a lie. She shook her head fiercely. Sarah was tired. She was Cécile: remember that.
She dismounted, once in the trees, and pushed her bike to the designated spot. There should be a lookout. Pierre stepped across her path. ‘You were not followed,’ he said. It wouldn’t be his real name. He waved her through, his rifle on his shoulder, but she stopped to talk to him. He was young, vibrant and keen. He kept his eyes on the area through which she’d come, and which gave him a view of the path and road. If a convoy came, stopped and the Germans swarmed towards them, he would let them know, pretty damned quickly.
‘You are the first, except for Arnaud. He is guarding the north side. We have a good sweep, and all we see are gulls pecking the ploughed fields – though what fish will they find in the earth?’ He shrugged.
‘Ah, they have convinced themselves worms are a form of fish, I expect.’ She rested the bike against her hip, coughing into her scarf.
‘You have gulls in England?’
‘We do, and they also follow the plough and look for … Well, what? Grain, worms? Derek loved to see them.’ She stopped. God, she was tired, and she must not be. Cécile didn’t have a Derek in her life, only Sarah did.
Pierre took her bike. ‘Let me hold it for you. Is there an egg? Have you ever had such a thing as an egg as you travel?’
‘Sadly, no.’
They stood back-to-back, watching, listening. She was early, as a precaution. She liked to see everyone who approached. Pierre pulled out a Gauloise, offering it.
Sarah shook her head and said, ‘Better not. The scent of it carries on the wind.’
Pierre nodded and shoved the packet back into his pocket.
‘But Gauloise? You’re fortunate,’ she said.
He shrugged; he was French, so it was what he did a lot. ‘I have an uncle, he’s … Well, he knows people.’
Did it matter that his uncle was in the black market? Well, who wasn’t? But she paused. She would mention it to Bernard. She smiled slightly. Would he kiss her cheek and say, ‘I’ll find out.’
The gulls were circling. Suddenly she wanted it to be next month, clambering into the Lysander and on her way home. But she wasn’t the same person any more, so what would Lizzy think of her? She could kill a man, though she had not yet. She could train men to plant explosives, though they had not yet and wouldn’t, until there was a reasonable target. They had thought they had found one, but the security had proved insurmountable.
So, would they notice on her return that she could lie and act, just like Kate, but couldn’t sing? Derek could sing. He and Lizzy would sing together as they walked to school. She had stopped that, for it only led to mischief, it led to wildness; and besides, she couldn’t join in, so she would have felt left out. What sort of arid person was she, back then?
Pierre asked, ‘Derek, your husband? You have left him behind?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s always with me, in many ways, and perhaps a prisoner-of-war too, here. I keep listening, but have learned nothing; perhaps one day …’ She came back to herself. No, she must not talk about her life. Sarah saw movement, and nudged him. ‘Three points east.’
A man was traipsing towards the copse, around the ploughed field. Pierre said, ‘Raoul. And Florian two points east.’
‘I’ll go on. Send them through, Pierre, and thank you.’
Sarah made her way to a small clearing where Arnaud crouched, his rifle in his hand, two other men with him. She said, ‘Stay on lookout, Arnaud.’
He looked up, tapping his watch. ‘Renée is taking the watch at the moment. She clocks off in an hour.’
‘Of course.’ The guards rotated, and she needed to keep up, but Renée was as sharp as a knife, and no-one would get past her. For such a young woman, she was dependable and was admired by the whole group. Sarah’s head ached with the cold. Raoul and Florian, the two newest members of the group, joined them, leaving Pierre on watch. They drew close together. She coughed into her scarf. ‘Too many Gauloise,’ Florian, a father of two, murmured.
‘Too much cold,’ she whispered back. They all nodded.
She explained that they would be talking about setting explosives. She insisted that only small quantities must be used, as they could be carried without discovery, or with a smaller chance anyway. ‘As with everything I have said, you must avoid discovery, keep your intentions to yourself. Remember your pseudonym at all times. Do not involve anyone else,’ she insisted. ‘Not even your wife, or lover – or perhaps both.’ It was a line Bernard always said broke the ice, and he was right.
The men laughed.
‘The target must be specific, and the damage must be crippling. No point in risking your lives for something trivial. We need whatever the target is out of action for a long time, with the enemy perhaps not even realising it is sabotage, which will minimise the taking of hostages.’ She coughed again into her scarf.
‘Why not let the RAF bomb it, if it comes to that? If we tell them the target?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Good question, but we learned from the London Blitz, and the blitz of other cities, that much could be destroyed that way, but if nothing was critically damaged, teams could clear it up reasonably swiftly. If, however, there had been just one charge, tucked against one critical piece of machinery, all the clearing up in the world would not have got it working again for a long time.’ She looked around. ‘The task of the saboteur – you, and you, and you,’ she pointed to them, ‘is first to make sure that you will recognise the part of the machinery that is vital.’
She ticked off the points, stabbing her gloved finger into the bare palm of her hand.
‘You need to infiltrate the factory, then smash that vital component – one that cannot be repaired or replaced for months.’ She stared at her exposed palm, then let her hands drop. ‘So, what is required above all?’
The men looked at one another. One said, ‘Intelligence.’
She said, ‘Yes, so eyes and ears open, mouths shut. You will be told of specific targets, but you have a part to play there too. For instance, if you should receive information, use our communication drops to let us know. You know where they are, and always use the codes. If you need help, use the drop and the codes. These will be changed for your own safety, regularly. Now.’ She yanked at the grass in the clearing, and others helped, until there was just a small area of earth. Squatting, Sarah used a stick to trace a diagram. The men clustered around. ‘One pound of high explosives will need to
be applied, like so, to a critical part.’ She rested, coughing again. She stopped. Was that a crack – a twig?
The men spun round, and revolvers emerged as if by magic. They melted into the trees, as did she. A deer bounded across the clearing. They waited, listened. Nothing, and no alarm raised from the lookouts. They re-emerged. Her heart was beating right up into her throat.
They clustered around the diagram again. She impressed on them the need to get it right the first time. ‘Otherwise they will plug the loopholes in the perimeter which allowed you in.’
They talked amongst themselves, asking questions, some of which they answered.
Finally Sarah smiled. ‘Full marks. If my hen has laid an egg, it is yours.’
They all laughed, but quietly, all of them alert, their senses heightened by the false alarm.
‘So,’ she said, ‘if there is a boiler – say a steam locomotive – where do we place a small charge?’
‘The boiler?’
‘The wheel?’
She shook her head. ‘No, all those can be repaired. Remember, we need to stop the transport of supplies, troops and heaven-knows-what, so a charge placed against the bare end of a steam cylinder, which is made of cast iron, will render it out of action for months. Cast iron shatters, and spare parts are rare, as cast iron does not wear out.’
The men were nodding. They carried on for another hour, but then dispersed, heading back to their work and their homes whilst she cycled back to Rouen, reaching it long before curfew. She left her bicycle at the drop, checking for eggs: nothing. ‘You wretched bird, but it’s right that your master gets it.’
She walked, coughing, coughing, some 100 yards towards Romain’s door, bending down when she reached it, shaking her shoe free of a non-existent pebble and moving a stone from the top step to the bottom. The chicken and bike would be picked up soon.
She continued, walking past tired, thin Frenchwomen, some clacking along in their wooden-soled shoes, and thick stockings, heavily darned, like hers. Others were in court shoes as worn and battered as her own, all with that look in their eyes. Were their sons, husbands, lovers still prisoners-of-war in Germany or had they been taken for labour? Were they collaborators; were they Resistance; were they just getting through as best they could?