‘Good.’ Billy gave a little clap. ‘Did you notice how your voice changed when you allowed yourself to be young and carefree?’
Claire did. She noticed her voice was different with several other personality changes too. When she thought of her older sister Bess, how sensible she was and how well she dealt with difficult situations, her voice took on a serious, understanding and caring tone. When she thought of her sister Margaret, she became chatty and cheeky. And when she remembered how she felt when she received the news that she’d passed the Eleven Plus, even though her parents couldn’t afford the uniform so she didn’t go to the grammar school, her voice was confident and assertive.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said to Billy and Olivia when they had done with her. ‘It’s a relief to know I won’t have to carry wigs and padding about.’
‘That would be a real show stopper if you were searched by Uncle Gerry.’ Billy pursed his lips. ‘You’d end up playing the lead role in a high security venue, darling!’
In the days that followed, Claire was asked about her French parents and siblings. She was asked where she was born, brought up, went to school – and about her extended family. She was given instructions about code names and cover names. An agent’s code name was their signature, and should only be used when communicating by wireless. The name on their identity papers, their cover name, must be used at all other times. When working with a partner you must only use his cover name. You must only speak French when you are in France. Speak it until you think in it. It must come naturally to you. One slip could cost you your life.
There were also staged interrogations. Endless questions about what she was doing. Why was she on the street? Where had she come from and where was she going? Towards the end of her training Claire was taken to a small room and left. Six hours later a member of staff playing an SS officer grilled her about her friends. Did she know any English men? Did she know any English women? Had she met any foreigners recently? Did she believe in a free France? Did she admire Charles de Gaulle? Had she heard of the Resistance movement? At the end of the day she was congratulated and asked to return the following morning.
‘Good morning, Claire. Come in,’ one of the two men in the room said in perfect German. ‘Please, take a seat.’ Claire felt the pulse in her temples start to throb and her heart began to race, but she didn’t move. ‘It says here that Claire speaks German,’ the first man said to the second.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ the second man said. Mitch’s words came into her head. You understand German, which will work to your advantage, but you must not show it.
‘My apologies, sirs,’ she said in French, and turned and closed the door.
‘So she apparently does not speak German.’ Both men looked at her file. Claire’s mouth was dry. She wanted to lick her lips; instead she swallowed. It didn’t help. ‘English girls are not taught other languages at school, so where did you learn French?’ the first man asked. Frowning quizzically, Claire lifted her shoulders and, looking worried, let them drop.
‘Are you taking us for fools?’ the second man shouted. ‘Well?’ He slammed his fist down on the desk and Claire jumped. Without taking his eyes off her, he slowly walked towards her until his nose was almost touching hers. Claire held her nerve. She looked at him, tilted her head innocently as if she didn’t understand, and said nothing. ‘So,’ he said, circling her, ‘you have a brother in the British Army.’ Claire felt perspiration run down her back. Her breath threatened to burst from her lungs, but she quickly controlled it and it remained steady. ‘His name is Tom. Is that correct? Is that correct?’ he shouted into her ear.
Claire turned to him, her eyes pleading. ‘I do not know what it is you want from me, sir,’ she said in French.
‘I want you to tell me about your brother Tom in the British Army.’ He spoke French now, but with a German accent.
‘I do not have a brother, sir. I have two sisters younger than myself. They are still at school and live with my parents.’
‘Good! Well done, Claire,’ the man said in English.
‘Gerry is not going to get anything out of you if you’re questioned,’ the second man said. Pointing to the chair on the other side of his desk, he said again, ‘Sit down, will you?’ Claire didn’t move. They were still testing her, trying to fox her with friendly and complimentary words. She knew they were SOE intelligence officers. Even so, she was not going to do anything they asked until they spoke to her in French. She remained standing.
‘Please take a seat,’ the second man said in French, sitting down in the chair behind the desk. The first man stood at his side and Claire sat in the chair in front of them. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you,’ he continued in French. ‘I feel sure that anyone lucky enough to partner you will be in safe hands.’ The man standing nodded and smiled at her.
‘Thank you,’ Claire said, taking both men in.
The first man looked at the second. ‘I think that’s it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the second man said. ‘Thank you, Miss…’ He looked at the file. ‘Le Blanc. You are free to go.’
Claire stood up, thanked both men, and left.
Shaking like a leaf, Claire ran up to her room. She flew to the wash basin, filled the glass holding her toothbrush with water and took a couple of sips. She felt no better and ran to the bathroom. Locking the door, she fell to her knees, began to retch, and was sick. Trembling, she returned to her room, threw herself onto the bed and closed her eyes. For the first time since she began training for the SOE she doubted herself. Was she doing the right thing? Was she tough enough for the job? She was eager and dedicated, but was she mentally strong enough? Would she be able to keep her resolve under real interrogation? Or would she capitulate, give up her fellow operatives? Tears squeezed through her eyelids. She turned over, held her aching stomach and slept.
The next day, lectures on traitors and what to look for, the importance of giving and receiving the correct passwords and patterns of words, controlling your fears and not showing your nerves, helped to put Claire back on the right path. She realised that she had done exactly what was required and expected of her during the interrogation. She now understood that what she thought was emotion was in fact adrenalin. Adrenalin pumped round your body when you were under duress and it kept you alert.
On the train back to London, Claire went through everything she had learned at Beaulieu. She had understood and enjoyed the change of voice and character work. She had passed the interrogation test, and all the other tests, but she had no certificate to frame, or promotion to show for her efforts. As far as the world was concerned the SOE training school at Beaulieu didn’t exist. Therefore she had never been there. When she was leaving, the commandant shook her hand, congratulated her, and wished her luck. That was enough. She had no qualms about going overseas and no doubts about her strength, physical or mental. She had successfully completed every step of a secret agent’s training and looked forward to her first mission into occupied France.
Claire hauled her case across the entrance hall to her ground floor apartment. She dove into her handbag, couldn’t find her key, and began to panic. She dropped the case with a dull thud, knelt down and tipped the contents of her handbag onto the floor. ‘Phew!’ she gasped. The key was stuck in the lining. While she was throwing her belongings back into her bag, Milly opened her apartment door and leapt out.
‘You’re back!’ she shouted, dashing across to Claire. ‘You look all in. When you’ve unpacked come over to mine. I’ve got some eggs from a pal who hates them. I’ll do fried eggs and chips.’
‘Thanks, Milly, I’d love to. I didn’t have time to eat anything before I left, and I was too tired to go to the shops when I got back to London.’ Claire opened the door and threw in her suitcase and gas mask. ‘My feet are killing me,’ she said, kicking off her shoes.
‘By the time you’ve sorted yourself out supper will be ready.’ Milly handed Claire her handbag. ‘I’ll leave the door
on the latch,’ she said, disappearing into her apartment.
Entering the sitting room, Claire shivered. The flat was so cold, bordering on damp. She decided to unpack later and set about building a fire. It took hold quickly and after putting the fireguard in front of it, she went to the bathroom and had a quick wash. Pushing her feet into her slippers, she grabbed her keys and crossed the hall to Milly’s flat. ‘Hellooo?’
‘Come in!’ Milly shouted from the kitchen. ‘Supper’s almost ready. There are a couple of bottles of beer in the sideboard cupboard. Open them, will you?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to save them for a special occasion?’
‘This is a special occasion. Open them, woman!’ Milly ordered, bringing in bread and butter and a bowl of chips. ‘One minute and the eggs will be done,’ she said, disappearing back into the kitchen.
Claire opened a bottle of beer, shared it between the two glasses, and put the other bottle on the table. She had just sat down when Milly returned carrying two plates, with an egg on each. After passing Claire hers she spooned half the chips onto Claire’s plate and emptied the rest onto her own. ‘Help yourself to bread and butter,’ Milly said, taking a slice and dipping it in the yoke of her egg.
When they had finished eating, Milly lifted her glass of beer. ‘I got the job as a translator.’
‘Congratulations. I’m pleased for you,’ Claire said, lifting her glass and clinking Milly’s.
‘It’s been so long since the interview, I’d almost given up. I only got the letter today, in the last post. You’re the first person I’ve told. I’ll go to the phone box in the morning and ring my mum. She’ll be so pleased, dad too.’ Milly chattered on, hardly taking a breath. ‘I’m not sure which they’ll be more pleased about – that I got the job, or that I won’t be going overseas.’
For a moment Claire thought about her own mum and dad, wondered how they would feel if they knew she might soon be going to France. She tried to shake the thought from her mind, but she was tired and felt emotional thinking about them. ‘There’s no need to wait until tomorrow.’
‘For what?’
‘To speak to your mum and dad. Use my telephone. Ring them now.’
‘I didn’t know you had a telephone.’
‘It was in the flat when I moved in.’
‘Thank you – if you’re sure? I’ll pay you for the call.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s the least I can do after you cooked me this lovely meal.’
While Milly telephoned her mother, Claire washed the dishes. Afterwards the two girls sat with the second bottle of beer and listened to the wireless.
Claire turned off the light and looked out of the window. There was a full moon. Four nights left of the eight where pilots would risk flying into France by moonlight. But with no French identity papers, clothes and accessories, Claire knew she wouldn’t be going to France this month. She dropped the blackout curtains back into place, felt her way across her small sitting room and switched the light back on. Itching for something to do, she flopped onto the settee and picked up a magazine. She had already read it.
She was out of her mind with boredom. She spoke to Eddie and her sister Bess on the telephone often, so when it rang she jumped up, ran to it, and sang, ‘Hello?’
‘Claire? It’s Vera Halliday here.’
‘Hello, Miss Halliday,’ Claire said, her heart beating with expectation.
‘Your French identity papers and clothes are here. Would you come into the office tomorrow at ten o’clock and collect them?’
‘Yes.’ Claire could barely control the excitement in her voice.
‘I’ll see you at ten. Make sure the clothes fit and the paperwork is in order. The colonel will brief you at eleven.’
‘Do I need to bring anything?’ Claire asked.
‘No, everything you need is here. See you tomorrow. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ Claire put down the telephone and squealed with excitement. At last things were moving.
CHAPTER NINE
‘What do you want to do, Captain?’ the pilot shouted.
‘Have we got enough gas to circle again?’
‘Once, but that’s it!’
‘We’ll have to go in blind,’ Mitch shouted into Claire’s ear. The cabin was so noisy Claire didn’t attempt to reply and nodded that she understood. There was a muffled banging on the side of the fuselage and the Halifax lifted and dropped. ‘It’s getting windy out there.’
Getting? The contents of Claire’s stomach rose to her throat with every gust – and had done since leaving England. It was windy crossing the Channel, and getting progressively worse over the coastal towns and villages of France. The plane rose and fell again, and Claire looked at the brown paper bag she’d been given in case she was sick.
‘Whoa!’ The plane plunged and Claire swallowed hard. ‘Wasn’t like this in training, was it, China?’ Not daring to speak, Claire forced a smile between tight lips, while keeping an eye on the brown paper bag.
‘OK! I’ve got the River Loire in my sights. Prepare to jump if you’re going to, Captain,’ the pilot shouted. ‘We’re over Blois. I can see the island in the middle of the river. Now I can see lights,’ he whooped, a few seconds later.
‘Okay. Let’s do it. We’ve got a reception committee, China. You ready?’ Mitch shouted.
Claire put both thumbs up. ‘See you in France, Alain.’ She moved to the door and looked down. Lights were twinkling below. They reminded her of the sparklers Lord Foxden gave her and her sisters on Guy Fawkes Night. She could hear the rumble of thunder and feel the wind buffeting the plane. If she didn’t jump soon she was sure she’d be sick.
‘Go!’ Mitch shouted and she let herself fall out of the plane into the night. Freezing rain numbed her face. She pulled on the parachute cord and held her breath until she felt the tug and whoosh as it began to open. Against the natural force of gravity, she was dragged upwards. The parachute opened fully and she breathed again. She pulled on a riser and the great mushroom that loomed above her tilted slightly. She pulled again, and this time it was angled enough to keep the icy wind and rain from blinding her. For a second she enjoyed the feeling of floating. Then she bent her knees before her feet touched the ground and landed well.
She began to run, but soon slowed and the parachute wafted around. She unfastened her harness and looked up. A slice of moon peeped through the storm clouds giving enough light for her to see Mitch was down and folding his parachute. Claire flattened hers and began to fold it.
‘You okay here on your own?’ Mitch shouted. ‘We’ve been blown off course. I’m going to look for the drop.’
‘Don’t go yet. Look!’ Claire pointed to half a dozen men walking across the field. Mitch ran to meet them and Claire followed.
‘Hello, sir. Miss,’ one of the men said, shaking Mitch’s hand and then Claire’s. The British SOE operatives and French Resistance members stood and looked at each other. They would go no further until coded questions had been asked and answered, Claire thought. She smiled at them.
‘I am Alain, and this is Claire.’
‘André,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To visit an old friend in the town of Gisoir. You might know him. He is a flamboyant fellow. He loves to bake.’
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Bake what?’
‘Cakes. Is he baking tonight?’
‘No, sir, he does not have the ingredients.’
‘Then I shall visit him tomorrow at twelve. No.’ Alain put his hand up. ‘At twelve-ten. And I shall give him the ingredients.’
‘Welcome to France, Alain,’ André said, shaking Alain’s hand. ‘Claire, welcome.’ After introducing them to his brother Frédéric, friends Pierre and Marcel Ruban, and the rest of the Resistance cell, he instructed the men to fetch the crates and packages from the drop and take them to the barn.
He beckoned Alain and Claire with a wave of his arm. ‘My mother has made food and prepared r
ooms.’ Once through a small wood, Claire saw a farmhouse, the outline of a barn and a row of outbuildings. André lead the way to the house, where an attractive middle-aged woman was laying the table. ‘My mother,’ he said, ‘Édith Belland. Mama, this is Alain and Claire. Excuse me while I see to the drop.’ He turned and left.
‘Welcome,’ Édith Belland said, with a warm smile. ‘Let me take your coats. You are soaked to the skin, both of you.’ Claire and Alain struggled out of their wet outer clothes and Madame Belland laid them over a large fireguard in front of an iron range. ‘Sit down, please. You must be hungry.’ She pointed to a large oblong scrubbed oak table surrounded by six chairs.
‘Can I do anything to help you, Madame?’ Claire asked.
‘Thank you, but no,’ Édith Belland said, taking a large earthenware pot from the oven next to the fire and placing it in the middle of the table. At that moment André returned with his brother Frédéric. ‘Wash your hands, boys,’ their mother said, ruffling her youngest son’s hair. ‘Dinner is ready.’
Dinner was meat and spicy dumplings in an aromatic gravy, with carrots and green beans. There was a large crusty loaf in the middle of the table that the Belland brothers pulled apart with their hands. André poured them each a small glass of red wine, raised his glass in a welcoming gesture and drank to Alain and Claire – the others around the table followed. Claire took a sip. The dry and slightly sharp taste made her want to smack her lips. She resisted and sipped again. This time as she swallowed the taste was crisp and fruity. In England she only drank beer, but she could get used to drinking wine, she thought, and raised her glass in thanks.
‘Let us go through to the front room,’ Madame Belland said, when they had finished eating. ‘There is a fire, it is warmer. André, bring another bottle of wine.’
Spring sunshine played across Claire’s face. She opened her eyes. The wooden shutters at the window, closed when she went to bed the night before, stood half open. She stretched her legs until her feet touched a wooden box at the end of the single bed, and then slipped from between the coarse cotton sheets. She crossed barefoot to the window, pushed it open, and caught her breath. On the horizon she saw fields of purple flowers. Lavender, or perhaps flowering broccoli? She knew lavender was grown mostly in the south of France, but maybe it was grown in the middle regions too. She stuck her head out of the window, inhaled deeply, and coughed as the smell of cow dung filled her nostrils. She didn’t care and flung the window open wide. She was in France at last.
China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) Page 9