A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  When the tarpaulin was pulled away and she sat up, she saw they had reached the end of a quay where dozens of assorted small boats were moored. The donkey was now tied to a ring in the stone wall. The old man stepped onto the deck of a shabby barge. He fired up the engine – Beatrice wondered where he’d got the fuel – then came back to the quay.

  Five minutes later, an observer on the shore would have seen a strange sight. A black barge skirting the coast, heading west into the sunset, on its deck the clear shape of a donkey silhouetted against the sky. The old man sitting at the tiller might have been any old man going about his business in war or peace, a handrolled cigarette between his lips, his cap pulled down over his ears. But Beatrice didn’t see any of this. She was hidden in the cabin.

  Journey’s End – the Camargue. A wild, desolate landscape where land, lagoon and sea merged in a single horizontal plain. Here Beatrice wandered, a slender, solitary figure, lost, waiting for time to pass. Sometimes as she watched, a great flock of pale flamingos would rise from the water and drift away across the sky and her heart lifted with them. Herds of bulls roamed the marshes, and blunt-nosed white horses with flowing manes, a homelier version of the noble white beasts of her childhood dreams.

  She shared a lonely thatched cabin with the old bargeman’s brother and his wife. There was a pair of bull horns over the door to ward off evil spirits. The brother rode the wild horses, and gradually, through the long, humid summer, she learned to master them, too. She hoped he’d come to trust her to go with him to gallop amongst the bulls, though this was man’s work and he merely frowned and shook his head. His own woman was tough, work-hardened – she had to be – but she was gentle enough with the young English girl, tutting over her scars and nursing her back to health and strength with rich beef stews and other stranger, muddier delicacies found in the marshes and pools.

  The war felt as though it was happening somewhere far, far away. In June the Allies made landfall in Northern France. The maquis rose in the south. In August came the great news of the Liberation of Paris.

  Beatrice was like a dreamer awakening. Her restlessness grew. She knew it was time to leave this wild paradise where she’d been lost in time, and go home. Her son would be waiting. And maybe she would find out what had happened to Rafe.

  At the beginning of September, the man with the donkey took her back to Marseilles and she presented herself to the new authorities. News of her survival was telegraphed to London. In the third week of September 1944, she boarded a great warship that was overflowing with sailors and soldiers and other flotsam and jetsam of war like herself, and set out through the Mediterranean for England.

  Round Spain they went, and Portugal, and up the west coast of France. It was a journey of over a week because the ship stopped everywhere, for some to disembark and others to board – everybody was on the move – but eventually, Beatrice watched from the deck as the buildings of Southampton solidified out of the autumn mist. And disappeared again in a blur of tears.

  And there to meet her on the quay, was Rafe.

  For a long moment they simply stood and stared at one another. He looked thinner than when she saw him last, but he’d lost that awful strained look. Then his face broke into the most boyish of grins and she groped her way forward into his arms. They clung to one another.

  ‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ she sobbed into his ear. ‘I thought you might be . . . Oh, never mind, you’re here.’

  ‘I could hardly believe it when they told me you were safe. Oh, Beatrice . . .’ he murmured.

  She pulled back from him and looked about. ‘Where’s Tommy? Where’s my son?’ Why wasn’t he here?

  Chapter 33

  Cornwall, 2011

  ‘They hadn’t brought him, Lucy,’ Beatrice said, her voice low and trembling. ‘They could have brought him to meet me and they didn’t. They knew I was coming home. Miss Atkins telephoned everybody . . .’ Her voice trailed away and she closed her eyes.

  Lucy sat watching her, wondering whether to speak. Tommy. Now that she’d finally mentioned his name, Lucy was a maelstrom of emotion.

  Of course, she had known that this whole story was leading up to something important, but now that they were getting there she didn’t think she wanted to know what it was. Was this the thing her father had been frightened of discovering? And yet, knowing that there was some secret, he had fiddled about on the fringes of it, trying to find out about Rafe.

  ‘Where was Tommy, Mrs Ashton? Was he all right?’

  ‘Just let me get my breath, dear, and I’ll tell you.’

  September 1944

  Rafe said, ‘He’s in Cornwall.’ There was something uncertain in his voice and she looked hard at him. His expression was serious, his eyes unreadable. ‘Bea, there are many things we need to talk about.’

  It was then she saw someone standing quietly watching them. A handsome woman in the neat navy uniform of the WAAF, very poised and upright. It was Miss Atkins. She stepped forward and took Beatrice’s hand.

  ‘Beatrice,’ she said, in her lovely low voice. ‘It’s so marvellous that you’re home. We’ve been searching everywhere for you.’

  ‘Have you?’ Beatrice said, not quite believing her.

  ‘Why, yes! But it’s been impossible. So many people coming and going, papers destroyed, tracks covered.’ She shook her head. ‘And getting our own people to give us any information . . . Well, I’ve already said too much. I’m so glad you’re home safely. You must have had an awful time.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘We need to talk, of course. There’s a car waiting. Major Buckmaster is extremely keen to speak to you.’

  Beatrice glanced at Rafe, who nodded imperceptibly. ‘I’ll come with you, naturally,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t go home yet?’

  ‘Very shortly you can,’ Miss Atkins said, almost crisply. ‘But there are important matters to speak of first.’

  Rafe sat in the front of the car, Miss Atkins and Beatrice in the back. As the car pulled away, Miss Atkins turned to face Beatrice and said, very gently, ‘First, my dear, I’m afraid I have some rather sad news for you.’

  ‘Tommy,’ she cried. ‘Not Tommy?’

  ‘I understand that your son is quite well,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘No, it’s your mother I’m talking about.’ In August, a year ago, Delphine Marlow had been visiting a friend in Falmouth. On the steep road down to the coast, the bus had lurched into a crater in the road and fallen on its side. She and another woman were crushed underneath. The other woman died at the scene. Delphine lingered on for several days but in the end her injuries proved too grave.

  ‘She never regained consciousness,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘I am so sorry to have to give you this news.’

  It was a blow. She sat with her hand over her mouth and tried not to cry.

  Rafe said, ‘Beatrice, are you all right?’

  ‘My father?’ she said, dull.

  ‘It was he who wrote and told us,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘Of course we were unable to forward the news to you. We didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘No one knew,’ Beatrice whispered. A picture of the man in the white coat advancing flashed into her mind. That’s where she had been.

  Much of the journey she sat sunk in misery, trying to remember the sight of her mother’s face, the sound of her voice as she sang.

  ‘She would have been so worried about me,’ she told Miss Atkins. ‘And she didn’t even know that I was alive.’

  The debriefing at the offices in Baker Street took all day, but while they sat waiting for Major Buckmaster to arrive, she learnt what had happened to Rafe, and to the rest of the network after her capture.

  ‘I swam across the river. They’d hit me in the shoulder, and I didn’t think I’d make it. I nearly passed out and they kept shooting at me. I still don’t know how I managed it.’

  ‘And then what did you do? Didn’t they have dogs?’

  ‘Yes, I could hear them. I stumbled about
a bit in the woods, then found a log and drifted downstream where the river widens, and hid on some of those little islands for two days. It was awful. The wound got infected and I developed a fever.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘And I was so worried about you. I felt so guilty that it was me who had got away.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Beatrice cried. ‘You were wounded. We both did what we had to there.’ And with the words, warmth coursed through her body. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I still feel the same about you, Beatrice,’ he said, taking her other hand. ‘I’d do anything for you, you know that.’

  ‘I know, Rafe. So what happened to you after the islands?’

  ‘An old man came down to fish. Got a bigger catch than he imagined.’ Rafe laughed. ‘Anyway, he helped me.’

  ‘I know Charles was captured, but do you know if he’s still alive?’

  ‘They took him to Limoges, like you.’

  ‘They had his wireless in Paris. And some of his messages.’

  ‘Beatrice, I’m afraid Charles is dead. He took his pill that first night.’

  ‘Poor Charles.’ Beatrice couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘What about the Girands?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news there, too. They were tried and later shot.’

  ‘Oh, Rafe.’ And now it became even harder. ‘And the rest of the network? Stefan, the doctor?’ She read the answer in his eyes, eyes that tried not to accuse, but she read the accusation there nonetheless.

  ‘They’re dead, aren’t they? Aren’t they? Rafe,’ she said desperately, and he put his hands over his face, ‘I promise, I tried so hard not to say anything, but after they had tortured me many times and got nowhere, they injected me with something. In the end I might not have known what I said.’

  ‘I can’t bear to think of it, you . . . going through that,’ he whispered.

  Nearby a door opened and a young girl said, ‘Major Buckmaster is ready for you both now.’

  Beatrice told Maurice Buckmaster and Vera Atkins the story from beginning to end. Every now and then, once of them stopped her with a question. Who did she think André was, the man in the café? What had she told the policeman in Limoges? What had she told the interrogator in Avenue Foch? Who else had she seen in the prison? What about the map on the wall – what was on it? How did she think the Germans had got the information? What had she said when she was under torture?

  As she stumbled through her story, she became more and more distressed and finally angry. They didn’t explain anything to her. They were trying to find answers for themselves, not least to piece together what had happened to some of the other agents, people she didn’t know. Miss Atkins was very interested in the name Madeleine – the fellow-prisoner Beatrice had whispered with on the bus journey to the train station. Had Madeleine definitely got on the train? Where was the train going? Where in Germany? ‘I’ve no idea!’ Beatrice almost shouted.

  She saw that Miss Atkins cared, that she badly wanted to know where some of her protégés were, whether they were alive or dead, but there was also a sense that they were wanting to cover their own backs, for they would not comment on the map on the wall in the Avenue Foch, but merely stared at one another in disbelief. As the session continued, the Major began to pace the room, not saying anything for long moments. Her account of her torture seemed to upset him badly; she was grateful at least to see that.

  As the interview began to run out of steam, at last she could bear it no longer.

  ‘Why didn’t you do something earlier?’ she burst out. ‘You didn’t listen to us when we told you about André. You just dismissed it.’

  ‘There seemed no reason for us to be suspicious,’ was the Major’s mumbled reply. ‘He sounded harmless, a maverick, maybe.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve since found out that he was working for the Germans,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘Whether his intention really was to come to London, or whether he was trying to get information out of you, we don’t know.’

  ‘He knew all about us, that was what was alarming. You should have pulled us out of there. You’ve no idea, have you, quite how abandoned one can feel. I came to believe that they were right, that you didn’t care about us, that you were ready to turn your back on us.’

  ‘That was never true,’ Miss Atkins said quietly. ‘You have been in our minds all the time. We tried desperately to find out what had happened to you, but we heard nothing after you were taken from Limoges. Nothing, that is, until September, when we were allowed into Paris. And then we feared you’d been taken to Germany. There are so many missing, Beatrice. You don’t know how glad we are to see you safe. You have been so extraordinarily brave.’

  ‘You certainly have,’ the Major echoed. He looked, Beatrice thought, quite upset, and it struck her how decent he was. A man who expected the best of people and often got it, but who in so doing, underestimated the depths of brutality to which humanity could fall. A man too nice to go to war.

  It was early evening when they finished with her and Rafe. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, but now duty was done there was only one thing on her mind.

  ‘Rafe, I need to see Tommy. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in Saint Florian, Bea. It’s too late to go tonight.’

  ‘Here is your handbag with your keys, all safe,’ came Miss Atkins’s voice behind her. ‘We kept up the payments on your flat as you asked.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was looking forward to seeing Dinah.

  ‘I can arrange for a car to take you down to Cornwall tomorrow, if you like. We telegraphed Mrs Cardwell to say you were home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Beatrice said, taking a moment to realize she meant Angie.

  ‘It really is the least we can do.’

  ‘I must speak to my father as well. I still can’t believe . . .’ Her voice broke.

  ‘I know,’ Miss Atkins said, taking her hand and looking very sympathetic. ‘I really am so sorry.’

  They said their goodbyes. In the lift Rafe drew her to him. ‘My poor girl. Are you too worn out to have dinner with me?’

  ‘Of course not. And you’ll come with me tomorrow?’

  ‘I can’t, unfortunately. They’ve asked me to do something here.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her spirits plummeting. ‘I’d hoped . . .’

  ‘I know.’ They reached the ground floor and made their way out into the sunshine. Rafe hailed a cab. ‘The Ritz, don’t you think?’

  ‘That would be marvellous. Rafe, have you seen Tommy? How is he?’

  ‘Very well, as far as I know. I saw him last month. Did I tell you they’ve moved back into Carlyon Manor now? Angie’s mother’s down there with them. Hetty’s been sent away to school. Young Tommy enjoys racing around in all that space. He’s a smart little chap.’

  ‘Has he changed very much? He’ll be three next month. Three!’ She felt a surge of terrible sadness to think of all she’d missed. ‘Oh, Rafe, suppose he doesn’t remember me.’

  He laughed. ‘I expect he will.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ The more she thought about it, the more anxious she felt. ‘And how’s Angie? Has she had her baby? And Gerald?’

  ‘My brother’s in France somewhere. Do you know, it turns out he was involved in the invasion plans all along? He went over on D-Day plus twelve. Most of the really dirty work had already been done. He really has had all the luck in this war.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s not over yet. What about Angie?’

  Angie’s had a hard time, Bea.’ Rafe’s tender gaze was fixed on her now. ‘She lost the baby, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s so awful.’

  ‘I think it’s helped her, having Tommy. They seem very close.’ She looked at him quickly and saw he was trying to choose his words carefully. ‘It will be very hard for her to lose him.’

  She laughed in astonishment. ‘I would have thought she’d be glad to be relieved of the burde
n of someone else’s child.’

  ‘Just be gentle with her, Bea, that’s all I’ll say.’

  ‘I wish you were coming down there with me.’

  ‘I wish I were, too, but perhaps it’s best I’m not. You’ll want to see Tommy on your own. And your father, of course.’

  ‘Yes. I must telephone him from the hotel.’

  From the Ritz, she managed to speak briefly to her father, who sounded very quiet and faraway. When she gave the operator the number for Carlyon she was told there was some problem with the line. She would just have to turn up.

  It was extraordinary to Beatrice to be drinking cocktails in the Ritz, bumping into people she hadn’t even thought about since she saw them last, in what seemed like another life. No one asked her where she’d been, though one or two studied her curiously, and she laughed and joked with them, wanting to blot out all that had happened and finding she was unable to do so. Tomorrow she’d see Tommy and her father and, grief welled in her once more, she’d see the home where her mother was no longer. The drink burned her throat as she gulped it down, but it seemed to help. Later, in the restaurant, she ate in a sort of haze.

  ‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’ Rafe murmured. ‘Shall I take you home?’

  ‘Stay with me,’ she told him, when the cab pulled up outside the house in Primrose Hill.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not letting you go now,’ she replied.

  ‘That rather settles it then,’ he said.

  The flat was dark. Dinah was away – she must have been away some time, for the place had an unlived-in air and was cold, but everything looked the same, and when she opened the door of the old mahogany wardrobe, she saw her clothes still hanging there. She closed the door and turned to find Rafe. Gently, he put his arms around her.

  ‘Rafe,’ she said as he undressed her in the dimness. ‘I’m frightened. I’m . . . not the same as I was.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  He cried out in pity when he saw the scars on her back and her poor feet. The two of them lay together in the bed for a long time, he just kissing and caressing her, until finally she gained the confidence to let him in.