China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Claire wandered into the kitchen and explored the cupboards. First on the left was home to the iron and ironing board, carpet sweeper and small brush and pan. In the cupboard opposite there were two tins of Danish ham, a tin of spam, and a packet of dried egg. To the left, crockery and the teapot, and to the right, a bowl with four real eggs, a loaf of bread, a bottle of coffee, quarter of tea, and small bag of sugar. The cupboard beneath the sink held pots and pans, and the cold store next to it, a pint of milk and half a pound of butter. Claire was hungry, but didn’t fancy tinned meat. She put a little water in a saucepan, put it on the stove and lit the gas. She turned the gas down when the water began to boil, and cracked two eggs into it. Poached eggs on toast would be enough. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and while it boiled cut a couple of slices of bread and put them under the grill. While the eggs simmered she turned the bread and made a pot of tea. Then she took the toast from the grill and buttered it, before spooning the eggs onto the plate. Putting her supper on a tray, she returned to the sitting room.

  When she had finished eating, Claire took the dishes into the kitchen. Instead of washing them up she was distracted by classical music. She ran to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. The music, louder now, was coming from the floor above.

  The door of the flat opposite opened and a girl wearing a bathrobe came out. ‘RAF,’ she said, tutting. ‘Plays that awful noise every night.’ The girl ran up the stairs and banged on the door. ‘Turn that racket down!’ she shouted. She stood with her arms folded. She was about to knock again when the music quietened until it was hardly audible. ‘There,’ she said, running down to join Claire. ‘Now I can hear myself think. I’m Milly,’ she said. ‘I don’t usually mind, but I’ve got a test tomorrow.’ Milly put her hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, ‘If I pass I’ll be translating Luftwaffe pilots’ gespräche on the south coast.’

  Claire was about to say something congratulatory in German, but thought better of it. ‘I’m sure you’ll sail through it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know when I get back in a couple of days.’

  ‘Please do. Good luck,’ Claire called after her, as she disappeared into her flat.

  Claire stood for a moment and listened to the sound of the muffled music. She liked it. She liked Milly too, and hoped she would call on her with good news.

  The next day Claire strolled down to Oxford Street. Some stores still had Christmas decorations in the windows, others were preparing for the January sales, and a couple were bravely advertising New Season and Spring Fashions. She shivered. It was still winter, much too cold to be thinking about spring jackets and short sleeved dresses. She went into Selfridges to get out of the cold. In the main entrance was a huge framed photograph of the famous signature window that was smashed when the store was hit by a high explosive bomb and several incendiaries in September 1940. The damage to Selfridges was substantial. John Lewis, further along Oxford Street, had been completely destroyed.

  On the way home she bought more eggs, half a pound of cheese, and a jar of pickle. She fancied a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch and an omelette with a few chips for supper. As potatoes weren’t rationed she bought two pounds.

  Back at the apartment Claire made a cup of tea, took a sheet of paper and a pencil from a drawer in the sideboard, and settled down to work on her French cover story, which she had begun in Cullercoats when she stayed with the Marron family. At the top of the page she wrote her code name, China Blue. Several young men had remarked on her blue eyes, but fancy Colonel Smith noticing. I bet he was a charmer in his day, Claire thought, and she chuckled. Underneath she wrote Claire, and then LeBlanc – White was her mother’s maiden name. She added the names of her parents: Thomas and Lily; her father’s job: groom; and the names and ages of two sisters: Élisabeth, thirteen and Marguèrite, twelve. If they were still at school she didn’t have to invent jobs for them.

  She was born and brought up on a farm just outside Tours and went to school in Tours itself. She added the names Mélanie Rolland and her brother Éric as friends. Reading through what she had written, she realised it wasn’t enough, but it was a start. She left the piece of paper on the table to come back to later and stood up. A chill rippled down her back and she shivered. Stretching, she went over to the window and looked across Portman Square. It was getting dark; taxis and buses already had their sidelights on. Pulling the blackout curtains, she felt her way along the wall to the modern standard lamp and flicked it on. It shed a soft light.

  She shook out her shoulders and, feeling cold, fetched a box of Swan Vesta matches from the kitchen, struck one and put it to the paper and sticks at the base of the laid fire in the small grate. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at the clock. It had gone four and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. While the fire took hold she sliced and buttered a couple of pieces of bread and put them on a place with a wedge of cheddar and a spoonful of pickle.

  She had just begun to eat her belated lunch when the telephone rang. It was the first time anyone had telephoned her and she looked at the thing for several seconds before answering it. ‘Hello? Yes, this is Claire. Hello, Miss Halliday. Yes, I’m fine. I went for a walk along Oxford Street earlier and bought a few things on the way back. I hope it was all right to go out?’ Claire held her breath… ‘Oh good,’ she said, relieved. She listened carefully to what Colonel Smith’s P.A. told her and when she’d finished said, ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll be ready. Goodbye.’ Claire put the telephone’s receiver back on its cradle and took a sip of her tea. It was cold. ‘Oh my God!’ Somewhere between wanting to scream with excitement and feeling more nervous than she had ever felt before, she went to the kitchen and made another pot of tea. On her way back she took the folder the SOE had given her from the drawer, sat down and read through the file labelled “Intelligence Training”. On the first page in capital letters it said: DO NOT TELL ANYONE WHERE YOU ARE GOING.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Claire was waiting on the steps of the apartment building when the car taking her to Beaulieu pulled up. The driver took her suitcase and opened the nearside rear door. While he stowed her case in the boot, Claire threw her handbag and gas mask into the car and dropped onto the back seat. ‘Argh!’ she squealed. ‘Captain Mitchell? I’m – I’m sorry, sir,’ she stuttered. Her cheeks crimson with embarrassment, Claire gazed at her belongings wedged between the seat and the captain’s right thigh. ‘I didn’t--’

  ‘No damage done, Miss Dudley, though it might be worth remembering I’m not the enemy,’ Captain Mitchell said, laughing. He took hold of Claire’s gas mask as she made a grab for it, and let go of it at the same time as she did. ‘Stalemate!’ Captain Mitchell said. They both laughed. ‘After you.’

  Claire carefully moved her belongings from the captain’s legs.

  ‘Did you enjoy the parachute training, Miss Dudley?’ Captain Mitchell asked, as they began their journey through London.

  Claire thought it odd that he didn’t address her by her rank, but then she wasn’t with the WAAF now. ‘I did. I was nervous in the beginning, but after the first jump I enjoyed it.’ Remembering the feeling of excitement, she said, ‘If I’m honest, I loved it, Captain Mitchell.’

  ‘I knew you would, Miss Dudley.’ Claire sat back in her seat, surprised and delighted that the captain had that much faith in her. ‘Would it be okay if I call you Claire?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She felt her cheeks colour again.

  ‘And I’m Alain, but my friends call me Mitch.’

  ‘Alain? You pronounced it the French way.’

  ‘C’est la façon dont ma mère se prononce. Je suis Canadien Français. Mes grands-parents maternels sont Français.’

  The captain is testing me, she thought. Right, you clever... “‘That is the way my mother pronounces it. I am French Canadian. My maternal grandparents are French?’”

  ‘Well done, Claire. A perfect translation.’

  ‘Your pronunciation an
d accent were perfect, so it wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. Are you as proficient in German?’

  ‘No. I’d never be able to convince a German national that I was German, because of the grammar, but I’d be able to understand everything he or she said. The German language is easy to learn, but the grammar is difficult. If you don’t get the sentence structure right, a German would know you weren’t a citizen immediately.’ Captain Mitchell nodded that he understood. ‘What about your father? Is he Canadian?’

  No, my father’s parents are Scort’ish, from Glassgee.’

  Claire laughed. ‘Your French accent is better than your Scottish, sir.’

  ‘Mitch.’

  ‘Mitch. It feels odd calling you by your nickname, with you being a captain.’

  ‘Until we get to Hampshire, I’m just plain old Mitch.’

  Not plain, or old, Claire thought. Now he wasn’t barking orders his voice sounded rich and smooth and his eyes were a soft blue-grey, not slate as she had first thought. She felt her cheeks redden and she looked out of the window at the River Thames. They were crossing Hammersmith Bridge.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ the driver said, some time later. ‘We’re almost at the halfway point. Would you like to stretch your legs?’

  ‘Good idea, Tim. Pull over at the next pub, will you? Claire, would you like a cup of tea or coffee, use the ladies’ bathroom, perhaps?’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

  ‘The Highwayman, sir,’ Tim said, pulling up outside an old roadside inn. He jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened Claire’s door while Mitch let himself out. ‘They do a good pint of mild, sir, if you don’t fancy coffee.’ With a wry smile, Tim closed Claire’s door.

  ‘Sounds good. You’re welcome to join us, Tim.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but my mate is the chef here. I thought I’d go round to the kitchen and see him. I’ll be back at the car before you’re ready to leave.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mitch opened the door of the Highwayman for Claire to enter and followed her in. ‘Wow!’ He ducked, missing the carved lintel above the door by half an inch. ‘I guess your British highwaymen weren’t very tall.’ In the porch of the old inn, Mitch’s eyes widened in surprise at the uneven walls and low knotty wooden beams. ‘So this is what they call oldie worldie, huh?’

  ‘It is. My dad and brother’s local, in the village near to where we live, has beams like this – although they’re not as low and the pub isn’t as smart.’ Admiring the heavy oak furniture, Claire made her way to a table by the window overlooking a stream. ‘Shall we sit here?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get the drinks. What would you like?’ Mitch asked, already on his way to the bar.

  ‘Just tea, please.’

  When he returned it was with a pint of dark beer. The waitress followed with the tea and two menus, giving one to Claire and leaving one on the table for Mitch. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’ Looking at his menu, Mitch took a long drink of his beer. ‘I like the sound of the ploughman’s lunch. How about you?’

  ‘It looks good. I’d like it too.’

  Mitch looked over to the bar where the waitress stood talking to the barmaid. He put his hand up and the waitress came at once. ‘Two ploughman’s lunches, and could we get some meat with them?’

  ‘We have ham on the menu, sir. I’m sure chef will add a couple of slices to your lunch.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. Ham on the side for two,’ Mitch said.

  Claire looked out of the window at the small stream. It was so clear she could see the pebbles on the riverbed. ‘I was surprised when Miss Halliday said a car was picking me up. It isn’t usual for military personnel of my rank to be driven. We usually do the driving.’

  ‘I guess it isn’t. I don’t always go down by car, because of the petrol. I jump on a train, but Tim had to go down to pick up some of the top brass and take them back to London, so I bummed a ride. And as I live round the corner from you on Portman Square, I mentioned to Vera Halliday that we had worked together at Coltishall, and suggested I offered you a lift.’ Mitch smiled. ‘I thought it might make up for pushing you so hard during your training.’

  ‘It has, I assure you.’

  They ate in relative silence and when they had finished, Mitch went to the bar to pay the bill and Claire went to the ladies’. When she arrived at the car, Tim was sitting in the driver’s seat reading the newspaper. As soon as he saw Claire he folded the paper, dropped it on the passenger seat and put on his cap. ‘Nice lunch?’ he asked, jumping out and opening Claire’s door.

  She nodded. ‘Lovely, thank you. Did you have anything to eat?’

  Tim raised his eyebrows. ‘Fresh bread – still warm, it was – and a couple of thick slices of ham,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

  Mitch came out of the pub and jumped into the car. Okay, let’s go! Next stop the school.’ He took a handful of folders from his briefcase and for the next hour read a variety of documents and a couple of letters. When he had finished reading he sat back in his seat and looked out of the window. ‘We’re getting close, Tim, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir, another ten minutes.’

  From the second she got in the car Claire had been itching to ask Mitch about the training. She’d been with him for three hours and hadn’t mentioned it. If she didn’t ask him now, it would be too late. ‘Can I ask you about the intelligence training, Mitch?’

  ‘You can ask,’ he said, his eyes sparkling, ‘but I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I understand,’ Claire said, wishing she hadn’t said anything. As the car pulled up outside the house, Tim leapt out and took the cases from the boot. ‘Thank you, Tim.’

  ‘My pleasure, miss.’

  Claire turned to Alain Mitchell. ‘Well, this is it,’ she said, grinning nervously. ‘Thank you for the lift, Captain Mitchell.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Dudley.’ They both laughed.

  Picking up her case, Claire walked towards the front door. ‘Miss Dudley?’ She turned to see Alain Mitchell at her side. ‘As an English WAAF, you speak and understand German, but as a French girl you only speak and understand French. Remember that. That you understand German will work to your advantage. But if anyone speaks to you in German while you are here, no way must you let them know you understand what they are saying. Right?’

  ‘Right! Thank you, sir!’ She daren’t watch the captain walk away. She was too excited, too nervous. She needed time to compose herself, so she focussed her attention on the beautiful gardens. The lawns were short and neat – what her dad would call manicured – and beyond them she could see the River Beaulieu sparkling in the sun. She would explore the grounds and the river when she had time, but now she needed to sign in at the SOE Finishing School.

  On her first morning, Claire was taken to meet Olivia the makeup artist. Olivia showed her ways of changing her appearance. She gave her a pair of reading glasses and a scarf. ‘The glasses aren’t a strong prescription, so they won’t hurt your eyes, but if anyone puts them on to check they’re authentic, they’ll know they are.’ Claire slipped them on. ‘Now put the scarf on over your hair and tie it at the nape of your neck instead of under your chin,’ Olivia said. ‘You’ll be surprised how different you look.’ Claire did as she was instructed. ‘Now let’s add lipstick. What colour do you usually wear?’

  ‘Dusky rose, sometimes a deeper pink.’

  ‘Good.’ Olivia took a lipstick from her makeup case. ‘Look up. We’ll see what this looks like.’ Claire lifted her face, made her lips taut, and Olivia applied a maroon-coloured lipstick. ‘What do you think?’ she said, holding a mirror up so Claire could look at herself.

  ‘Good Lord. I wouldn’t have believed that by making a few changes I could look so different.’ She looked to the left, and then the right. ‘I don’t wear glasses, so that’s an obvious change, but with the scarf worn this way I look quite sophisticated.’

  Olivia untied the scarf at the back and tied it at the front. ‘And n
ow?’

  Claire laughed. ‘Wearing the scarf like this, with the dark lipstick, I look much older.’

  ‘It’s amazing what a hat, or a different hairstyle, can do to change your appearance. Hats are provided by London, but if you need any help with your hair come and see me again before you leave,’ Olivia said. ‘I’ll show you how to dress your hair in a couple of styles that you can do quickly yourself.’ Before Claire had time to ask Olivia more on the subject of her hair, she heard the door open.

  ‘And a change of character will make an even bigger difference,’ a man trilled, as he entered the room.

  ‘Claire, this is Billy. He’s an actor and he’s here to help you change your voice.’

  ‘Voice is only part of it, my dear, as well you know,’ he said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at Olivia. ‘A change of voice is not sustainable without a personality to go with it.’ He pursed his lips. ‘How good is your memory, Claire?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ she said modestly.

  ‘Excellent, darling. Now…’ Billy drummed the fingers of his right hand on his chin and looked to the heavens for inspiration. ‘I want you to think of a situation, something that happened recently, that made you feel young and carefree.’ Claire thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Right! Tell me your name and tell me something mundane that you have to do. Then tell me what you would rather be doing – and it must be with a young and carefree air.’

  ‘My name is Claire LeBlanc, monsieur. I am going to the market to buy vegetables.’ Claire took an imaginary piece of paper from her pocket and read it. ‘Cabbage!’ She shuddered. ‘I would rather be going to the boutique to buy a new dress, monsieur,’ she said, wrinkling her nose playfully.