“So where did they find you from?”
“I was working as a filing clerk at MI5. I was told it was because of my fluent French and knowledge of the country that I was deemed suitable.”
“The only knowledge I have of France is drinking cocktails on the terrace in Cap Ferrat.” Venetia laughed. “Well, that and the fact that I have a German granny, so I’m rather good at their language, at least. My French, so I’m told, isn’t bad, either. I came from Bletchley Park … I’m sure you know of it, if you were working at MI5?”
“Of course. We heard all about the Enigma code.”
“Yes, that was rather a triumph.” Venetia wandered over to a plant pot on the windowsill and tapped her ash into it. “Apparently they need wireless operators desperately out in France. Due to my decoding skills, I’m their girl. Did you know,” she added, walking back to her bed and throwing herself lengthways onto it, “that the current life expectancy of a wireless operator is approximately six weeks?”
“Surely not!”
“Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it?” Venetia drawled. “I mean, one can hardly hide a wireless set in one’s undies, can one?”
Connie could hardly believe the casual way Venetia was talking about her own possible death. “Aren’t you frightened?”
“I’ve no idea. All I do know is that the Nazis have to be stopped. My father managed to get Granny out of Berlin just before the war started, but the rest of his family in Germany have disappeared. They’re Jewish, you see, and our family’s suspicion is that they’ve been herded off to one of these death camps we’ve heard about. So”—Venetia sighed—“whatever I can do to stop them, I will. The way I see it, life won’t be worth living for any of us unless Hitler and his merry gang are buried six feet under. And the sooner the better, in my book. Only bugger is, they’ve told me I have to cut off my hair. Now that,” Venetia said, sitting up as she shook her lustrous ebony mane around her shoulders, “is a problem.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” Connie said, thinking that if anyone was likely to outwit and defeat the Nazis single-handedly, it was this extraordinary woman.
“How life changes.” Venetia lay back down on the bed. “Only four years ago, I was coming out as a debutante in London. Life was simply one big party. And now”—she turned to Connie and sighed conspiratorially—“look where we are.”
“Yes,” agreed Connie. “Are you married?”
“No fear!” Venetia smiled. “I decided years ago I wanted to live life first before I settled down. Looks like I’m doing just that. You?”
“Yes, I am. My husband, Lawrence, is a captain in the Scots Guards. He’s out in Africa at the moment. But he’s missing in action.”
“I’m sorry,” said Venetia, her eyes full of sympathy. “Bloody awful, this damned war. Sure your hubby will tip up, though.”
“I have to believe he will,” replied Connie with more stoicism than she felt.
“Do you miss him?”
“Dreadfully, but I’ve learned to live my life without him, like so many other women with men away fighting.”
“Any amour since?” Venetia gave a knowing smile.
“Gosh, no! I would never … I mean …” Connie could feel herself blushing. “No,” she answered abruptly.
“Of course not. You look like the faithful type.”
Connie wasn’t sure whether this was meant as a compliment or an insult.
“Anyway,” Venetia continued, “I’m jolly glad I’ve been single for the last four years. I’ve had enormous fun. And in these difficult times, my motto is seize the day, because you have no idea whether it will be your last. And with what you and I have lying ahead of us”—she stood up to stub out her cigarette in the plant pot—“that may well be the case.”
• • •
Later that afternoon, the two women were called downstairs into the grand drawing room, offered tea and cakes and introduced to their fellow trainees.
“You know what SOE stands for, don’t you, darling?” whispered Venetia to Connie. “The Stately ’Omes of England!” She dissolved into silent giggles. “Wonder who lived here before it was requisitioned?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Connie, taking in the high ceilings, the grand marble fireplace, and the long Georgian windows that led to an elegant terrace.
“And so is he.”
Connie followed Venetia’s gaze to a young man leaning against the fireplace, deep in conversation with one of the instructors. “Yes, he is rather.”
“Why don’t we go and introduce ourselves? Come on.”
Connie trailed behind as Venetia walked over to the man and introduced them both.
“A pleasure to meet you, girls. I’m Henry du Barry,” he replied in perfect French.
Connie could only watch in awe as Venetia went into action—charm and sexuality personified. Feeling left out as Henry and Venetia conversed, Connie moved tentatively backward.
“Well now, that’s the Mata Hari of the group,” whispered a teasing voice behind her. “James Frobisher, aka Martin Coste. And you are?”
Connie turned around and focused on a man no taller than her, with thinning hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “Constance Carruthers—I mean, Chapelle.” She held out her hand and he shook it.
“How’s your French?” James asked her companionably.
“My mother is a native, so I’ve grown up fluent.”
“Sadly, I don’t have that advantage.” James sighed. “I’m progressing after my intensive course, but forget being arrested by the Gestapo. I’m more concerned that I won’t remember on which occasion to say vous or tu!”
“Well, I’m sure they wouldn’t be sending you out there if they weren’t confident with your language skills.”
“No, although France is in such a mess, they’re bloody desperate for agents. Being arrested like wildfire at the moment, so I hear.” James raised his eyebrows. “Never mind, we’re all on board for our different skills, and I seem to have proved myself rather good at blowing things up. And one doesn’t have to converse much with a stick of dynamite.” He grinned. “I must say, I admire the women who volunteer for the SOE. It’s a dangerous job.”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite say that I ‘volunteered,’ but I’m glad to be able to do my bit for my country,” Connie replied staunchly.
• • •
Over dinner in the elegant dining room that evening, Connie got to know the four male agents who would be training with her. Plucked from different walks of life due to their particular suitability for the job in hand, she chatted to Francis Mont-Clare and Hugo Sorocki, both, like herself, half-French, James, and of course Henry the fighter pilot, the heartthrob of the group. As the wine flowed, Connie experienced a sense of the surreal; looking at the people gathered around the table, it could easily have been a dinner-party scene being played out at many similar tables across Britain.
After dessert, Captain Bevan, the instructor in charge, clapped his hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope this evening has given you all a chance to get to know one another better. You will be working very closely alongside each other in the next few weeks. But I’m afraid the fun stops here. Breakfast is at six o’clock tomorrow morning, after which you will each receive an assessment of your general health and fitness. From the following morning, you will be obliged to take a five-mile run before breakfast every day.”
There were groans from the assembled company.
“Much of the work you do here will be about building up your physical stamina. I cannot underline how imperative it is that each of you departs for France as fit as we can possibly get you. That strength alone may well save your life.”
“Sir, I’m sure a Nazi with a gun right behind me will make me run very fast indeed, if needs be,” joked James.
Venetia giggled and the captain smiled.
“A number of you have already been through army training, so you’ll be used to the rigors of physical exer
cise. For some of you, especially the ladies”—the captain glanced at Venetia and Connie—“you may find it tougher. The next few weeks will be some of the hardest of your life. But if you value your life, you will give the skills we will teach you every ounce of the concentration and energy you possess. I’ll post the day’s schedule on the board in the entrance hall at six o’clock every evening. During the weeks that you are here, you’ll learn to shoot, detonate dynamite, learn basic Morse code, survival skills, and how to parachute. What you learn will ready you for the challenges that you face. You are all aware that SOE agents perhaps face the greatest danger of any of your fellow countrymen who are fighting against the Nazis in France for our human right to freedom.”
The room was hushed now, sober suddenly. All eyes were on the captain.
“But may I also add that without the caliber of men and women like yourselves, who know and understand the grave danger and yet are prepared to take up the challenge, this war and our victory could never be achieved. So, on behalf of the British and French governments, I thank you all. Now, there’s coffee and brandy in the drawing room for those who wish it. For those who don’t, I will say good night.”
James and Connie were the only two who declined the offer of coffee, finding themselves standing in the entrance hall together as the others disappeared into the drawing room.
“Not joining them?” James asked her.
“No, I’m a little tired.” Connie wanted to say “overwhelmed,” but refrained.
“Same here.”
They both took a couple of paces toward the stairs.
James stopped on the bottom step and turned to her. “Are you frightened?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“I am,” James admitted. “But I suppose one must do one’s bit. Good night, Constance.” He sighed as he walked up the stairs.
“Good night.” Connie watched him disappear out of sight. Shivering suddenly, she folded her arms about her and walked over to one of the huge windows, gazing up at the full moon. Was she frightened? She didn’t know. But perhaps the war, which had raged for almost four years of her young life, had blunted her emotions. Ever since Lawrence had left to fight within weeks of their marriage, Connie had felt as though her life was in a holding bay, at a moment when everything should have begun. At first, she’d missed him so dreadfully she’d hardly been able to bear it. Living in his huge, drafty house in Yorkshire, with only his brusque mother and her two aging black Labradors for company, she’d had far too much time to think. Her mother-in-law hadn’t approved when she’d decided to go to London to take up the offer of a job at MI5, gleaned through a contact of her father, who could see she was wasting away alone up on the bleak moors.
Many of the girls who had worked with her at MI5 had enjoyed the oddly gay atmosphere of wartime London; they were constantly being asked out by officers on leave, who took them for dinner and on to a club. And a number of those women were already either engaged or, even worse, married. Like her, their young men were fighting somewhere abroad, but that didn’t seem to stop them.
For Connie, it was different. Lawrence was and always had been, since she’d met him at a tennis party in Yorkshire at the age of six, the only man she had ever loved. Even though she’d been bright enough to pursue a career after her course at the Sorbonne and preferred France to the grimness of North Yorkshire, she had willingly signed up for a lifetime of being no more than the eventual chatelaine of Blackmoor Hall and wife to her beloved Lawrence.
And then, after the happiest day of her life, when she’d walked into the small Catholic chapel on the Blackmoor estate and said her vows, the man she’d loved for fourteen years had abruptly been removed from her just a few weeks later.
Connie sighed. For four years, she’d lived every day in fear of receiving the telegram that would tell her that her husband was missing in action. And subsequently it had arrived. Working at MI5, she knew all too well that the chances of Lawrence’s still being alive after two months of not being accounted for were receding by the day.
She turned and walked back across the hall toward the stairs. She’d faced the greatest fear of her life when she’d opened that telegram a few weeks ago. And with Lawrence still missing, she no longer particularly cared whether she lived or died.
She settled herself into bed, leaving the night-light on for Venetia. It was almost dawn before Connie heard her enter the room, emitting a small giggle as she stumbled over something on the floor.
“You awake, Con?” came a whisper.
“Yes,” she answered sleepily as she heard Venetia’s bed creak.
“My goodness, that was a fun night! Henry is completely dreamy, don’t you think?”
“He’s very handsome, yes.”
Venetia yawned, “I’m thinking the next few weeks may be far more pleasurable than I thought they were going to be. Night, Con.”
• • •
Contrary to Venetia’s initial assessment, the following weeks tested every one of the trainee agents to his or her limits. Each day was packed with rigorous physical and mental exertion; if they were not in a trench learning to detonate dynamite, they were shimmying up trees and hiding themselves among the branches. Edible nuts, berries, mushrooms, and plant leaves were identified, accompanied by endless shooting practice and the daily early-morning five-mile run. Venetia, engaged as much in her rip-roaring affair with Henry as she was with her daily activities, and often rolling into bed past four, groaned at the back of the pack.
Connie surprised herself by coping far better than she’d expected with the demands of the course. Always athletic due to her outdoor life on the moors, she could feel her physical strength growing apace. She was the best shooter in the class and had become an expert with dynamite, which was more than could be said for Venetia, who had almost managed to blow them all up by detonating a grenade in the trench itself.
“Well, at least it shows I can do it,” she’d said as she’d stomped back to Wanborough Manor afterward.
“Do you really think that our Venetia is suited to the job ahead of her?” asked James one evening as Connie and he sat over coffee and brandy in the drawing room. “She’s hardly the discreet type, is she?” He laughed as they watched her and Henry in a full-blown embrace on the terrace outside.
“I think Venetia will do very well indeed,” Connie defended her friend. “She lives on her wits, and as we keep being reminded, ninety percent of the reality when we get there will be down to that.”
“She’s jolly attractive, certainly, and I’m sure she’ll be able to charm herself out of most situations. Far better than I will,” James added morosely. “This really is the lull before the storm, isn’t it, Con? And, frankly, I’m dreading it, especially the parachute jump in. My knees give me hell as it is.”
“Never mind,” said Connie, patting his hand, “you may get the luxury of being flown onto terra firma in a Lizzy.”
“Hope so. Extricating myself from a tree, which is where I’m bound to end up knowing my luck, is sure to attract attention.”
Out of all the trainees, James was the only one to express his nerves at the task ahead. Connie and he were the quieter, more cerebral members of the pack and had formed a supportive friendship.
“Isn’t it strange, the path that life can take you?” James continued, after sipping his brandy. “If I’d had the choice, I’d have opted for a very different life to this.”
“I think that goes for most of the human race just now. If it wasn’t for the war, I’d be sitting on the North Yorkshire moors, probably getting fat and producing a baby a year.”
“Any news?” James knew about Lawrence.
“No, nothing.” She sighed.
“Don’t give up hope, Con.” It was James’s turn to pat her hand. “It’s such a bloody mess out there. There’s as much chance your husband’s alive as the other alternative.”
“I try not to,” said Connie, but every day that passed felt like another spade of so
il on Lawrence’s grave. “If this damned war ever ends,” she said, changing the subject to a less maudlin topic, “what will you do?”
“Golly!” James chuckled. “That seems such a bizarre thought at the moment. My life is similar to yours, in that I will simply return home and take over the family heap. Get married, produce the next generation …” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
“Well”—Connie smiled—“at least you’ll be able to teach your children French. Really, you’ve improved so much in the past few weeks,” she said encouragingly.
“That’s kind of you, Con. But I must tell you that I overheard the captain discussing all of us over the telephone in his office earlier with Buckmaster. Yes, I lurked.” James grinned. “Haven’t we been told to always use our ears to glean information? Anyway, the captain was waxing lyrical about you, saying you were the surprise star of the pack. An ‘A Grade’ student, it seems. F Section is expecting great things of you now, my dear.”
“Thank you for that; I was always rather a swot at school,” Connie said with a laugh. “The trouble is, I’ve never had the opportunity to test myself at life.”
“No fear, Con. I think your chance may be upon you.”
• • •
A month later, the preliminary training was over. Each agent was called in for a long, grueling session with the captain, who bluntly pointed out his or her strengths and weaknesses.
“You’ve done extremely well, Constance. And we’re all satisfied with your progress here,” the captain confirmed. “The only critical comment that has been made by your training officers is on your somewhat ponderous decision-making. Out in the field of operations, your fate can be decided by your immediate reaction to a situation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve proved you have good instincts. Trust them and I doubt they’ll see you wrong. We’re sending you off now to Scotland with the other agents who have passed muster here. It will fit you out further for the job ahead.” He stood up and offered his hand to her. “Good luck, Madame Chapelle,” he said, giving her a smile.
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