China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Claire rolled her eyes and blew out her cheeks. ‘Very well, but I shall go to Paris next week anyway. Whether I take anything with me is up to André, but since I don’t have any work over the next few weeks, I would like to visit the wife of a friend who had to stay in Paris with her parents when her husband and their children escaped to England.’ Édith lifted her empty coffee cup and pretended to drink. She wasn’t convinced, Claire thought. ‘It doesn’t make sense to take someone away from important work to make a delivery when I am free and can do it.’

  Jacques finished his coffee and wiped a serviette across his face. ‘I shall say goodbye. I look forward to seeing you when you have made a decision,’ he said, lifting his chair and placing it carefully under the table. Then he put his hand in his pocket and gasped. ‘Madame,’ he whispered, putting his other hand up to his mouth, ‘I have forgotten my wallet.’

  Édith smiled. ‘It will be my pleasure to buy your coffee, my friend.’

  ‘And the pastry,’ he giggled. Jacques put on his fedora, picked up his umbrella and after bowing to both women, he left.

  André paced the kitchen floor. ‘I don’t like the idea of you delivering money to this new Maquis group calling themselves the Paris Centre on your own,’ he told Claire.

  ‘And your reasoning?’

  ‘You don’t know these men. You don’t know Paris.’

  ‘I know people in Paris that I can stay with. They don’t know about the work I do and I have no intention of telling them, unless I think their house will be a good safe house.’

  André looked to his mother for support. Édith shrugged and André threw his hands in the air. ‘All right! You can go to Paris if you give me your word you will not go to Périgueux.’ Claire nodded. ‘You must deliver the money to the leader of Paris Centre first. Only then can you visit your friend. Agreed?’ Claire nodded again.

  Claire had never been part of a reception committee and found waiting for the aircraft as frustrating as waiting to jump out of it. She looked up at the sky. There were only a few puff-ball clouds, and the moon was almost full. A torch flashed at the bottom of the field, followed by a second and a third. Small, round, and bright enough for an aircraft to see at a thousand feet, the torches formed a straight line. Almost immediately Claire heard the familiar grumbling of a Halifax engine. She looked to the east and her tummy fluttered with excitement. She thought of Mitch and wished it was him landing. She swallowed hard. If he was in Périgueux prison in Paris, at least he was still in France, not in a work camp in Poland or Germany. Or in a concentration camp – she shivered – where Jewish people were taken and never heard of again.

  The plane, silhouetted against the clear sky, came into view and Claire watched the parachutes fall. She ran with the others to claim them. The speed of the operation was paramount. Collapse the chutes, fold them as small as possible and bury them. With Frédéric, she began to dig the damp mossy ground on the edge of the wood bordering a field that had once had wheat standing tall waiting to be harvested. Now it was overgrown and the crop, strangled by weeds, was dried and dead.

  Half an hour after the drop, the crates were buried. ‘Money,’ André said, handing Claire two small leather wallets. She placed them in her shoulder bag, buckled it and set off home.

  The following day after breakfast, Claire sat down with André, Frédéric, Édith and Pierre Ruban to discuss getting the money to Paris. All modes of travel were dangerous, but travelling by train was more so, because of the numerous identity paper checks. The Germans were paranoid. Every city and town a train went through brought out the local gendarmes who took delight in stopping and boarding the train to check its passengers’ papers. They often travelled on the trains. On those occasions there were fewer delays. Claire hoped that would be the case. It only took one over-zealous young gendarme wanting to impress his Gestapo masters to hinder, sometimes end, a passenger’s journey. Claire took out the Metro underground map that Professor Marron’s son Éric had given her. ‘I would like to visit someone in the 8th Arrondissement,’ she said. ‘I understand it is unusual to take time out when delivering, but ...’

  ‘But what?’ Pierre asked.

  What she was about to say sounded sentimental in such circumstances, but she was not going to hide anything from the brave men she worked with. ‘I promised the son of a French professor I stayed with while I was training that I would visit his mother in Paris if I got the chance.’ No one spoke. ‘And I thought another safe house in Paris, which the house may well become, would be useful. We have lost so many.’

  ‘You are right – but you will deliver the money first?’ André asked.

  ‘Of course. Once I’ve handed it over, I’ll spend a couple of hours looking for Madame Marron’s house. If I find it and I think it’s safe to introduce myself, I will. If I don’t find it, or find it and don’t think it’s safe, I’ll come straight back. ’

  ‘What’s your cover story?’

  ‘If I’m stopped on the train I shall say my grandmother lives in Paris. My parents are worried about her, so they have sent me to look after her. I’ll say the same at the Marron house, but if I get a hostile reception, I’ll apologise and say I have the wrong address.’

  ‘And what if you’re stopped by the Gestapo, or the gendarmerie, and they find the money?’

  I shall keep a third of it in my own purse. If they search me and find it I’ll tell them the same story, but add that the money is for my grandmother. I will of course give them a false address.’

  ‘You’ll be carrying money for Paris Centre too?’

  Claire nodded. ‘Granny’s francs will be in my bag – easy to find – and the money for the Maquis will be in my shoes. Hopefully if I am stopped they’ll be satisfied that they’ve found some money and won’t search me for any more.’

  Everyone agreed with the plan. Before he left, Pierre shook Claire’s hand and wished her luck. ‘I’ll see you on my return from Paris,’ she said, kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ he said, and after shaking hands with André and Frédéric, he kissed Édith goodbye and left.

  ‘Phew!’ Claire blew out her cheeks. ‘I’m really going to Paris!’

  ‘You are, but it is not a holiday,’ Édith warned. ‘Remember, it is dangerous to travel to the capital these days. It is dangerous too, in the streets of the capital. You must not trust anyone. Before you hand over the money you must be certain it is to the right person.’

  ‘Keep the money in the wallet,’ André said. ‘Loose notes are not easy to pass to someone without being seen.’ Claire nodded that she understood. ‘Buy a newspaper – most Parisians get a paper on their way to work. Then if the contact’s held up, or isn’t able to approach you for some reason, you will have something to do. This is the rendezvous address.’ André handed her a small piece of paper. Claire read it and gave it him back. ‘There is one more thing,’ André said. ‘These are the questions you will be asked and the answers you will give. If one word is different from what is on that paper, you are to get the hell out. Do you understand?’ Claire started reading the questions and answers and committing them to memory. ‘Claire?’ She looked up. ‘If the questions you are asked by Thomas Durand, the leader of Paris Centre, deviate in any way--’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will learn them verbatim and if there’s the slightest difference to what is on this piece of paper, I shall suddenly notice the time, excuse myself and high-tail it to Granny’s.’

  André explained to Claire again, as they drove to the railway station at Orléans in Father Albert’s old car, how important it was to be vigilant. If she felt in danger, or compromised in any way, she was to return home immediately.

  Claire thought André was fussing, but didn’t say so. She felt comforted that André, Frédéric, and Édith, who Claire had become very fond of, cared for her; cared for her safety. She assured him that she would do as he said.

  There was a bomb crater where Orléans station’s car park had once be
en, so, because it was almost time for the 9.05 train to Paris to leave, Claire jumped out of the car and ran into the station. With only minutes to spare she bought her ticket, ran across the concourse to Platform Three and boarded the train. She found a carriage with one vacant seat and quickly claimed it. Closing the door, she threw her holdall onto the overhead rack and sat down. Almost immediately the door opened and a young gendarme entered. With pale green eyes, shorter than fashionable blond hair, and a sharply ironed uniform, he looked more like a member of the Hitler Youth movement than the French gendarmerie.

  People fidgeted in their seats. Some took their papers from their pockets, and others, like Claire, took them from bags and cases on the overhead rack. Returning to her seat, Claire held her identity papers as casually as she was able. Her heart was beating so loud she thought the young policeman would hear it and think she was concealing a ticking bomb.

  He went first to an elderly woman, the only one in the carriage who hadn’t found her identity papers. ‘Papers!’ he said, as she searched in her handbag. He tapped his foot on the floor impatiently and shouted, ‘Papers!’

  ‘Ah,’ the old lady said, trembling. ‘Here they are. I am sorry,’ she said, as the policeman snatched them out of her hand. He looked at her with contempt, before glancing at her papers. He returned them to her with an unnecessary flick of the wrist that made her jump. She nervously muttered thank you, but was so frightened she could hardly formulate the words.

  The gendarme moved from one person to another, looking at their identity papers and nodding, until he came to Claire. She handed him her papers as everyone else had done, but instead of looking at them and moving on to the next passenger in the carriage he said, ‘Why are you going to Paris?’

  ‘I am going to visit my grandmother, sir,’ she said, calmly.

  He scrutinised her papers, then stared at her for what seemed an age. She began to panic. Was there something wrong with her documents? How could there be? The paper was authentic and the creases, where they had been opened and folded so many times, were as worn as André’s or Frédéric’s. She smiled up at him. Did he know her from Gisoir? Had he seen her perhaps in the market or shops? She hadn’t seen him before; if she had she would have remembered. She half smiled and looked at her papers in his hand, willing him to give them back to her.

  ‘What’s in your bag?’

  Claire instinctively looked up at the holdall. ‘Clothes, some food, and a little money for my grandmother. She has not been well and--’

  Ignoring her explanation he said, ‘Get it down.’

  Standing on tiptoe, she reached up for the bag, but before she could lift it down there was a commotion in the corridor. ‘Assistance! Assistance!’ a man was shouting.

  The gendarme flashed an angry look at Claire, as if she had somehow engineered the disturbance, and ran out of the carriage. Claire, already on her feet, followed him to the door. Sideways on, to make herself small, she peered out. Half a dozen policemen were chasing a man along the platform, while in the corridor a policeman had been floored by a man twice his size. The young policeman from Claire’s carriage jumped on the back of the big man, who swung him over his shoulder onto the first policeman. Leaving them in a heap on the floor, the man leapt out of the carriage and in seconds had disappeared. The last Claire saw of the gendarmes who had chased the first man, they were pushing their way through the crowds empty-handed.

  Claire returned to her seat and sat down. She allowed herself a breath of relief before joining in the general conversation as to who the two men were and what they had done. Claire wondered if they were part of a Resistance group and hoped if they were they had got away.

  Claire arrived at Paris’s Gare d’Austerlitz railway station nervous and excited. Since her first French lesson she had dreamed of visiting Paris. She had seen photographs and read articles in English and French magazines about the most romantic city in Europe, where artists sat in cafés on the Left Bank and talked about painting, poetry and the theatre – and where lovers, hand in hand, strolled along the banks of the River Seine. Claire checked the time on the station clock. The journey from Orléans to Paris, even with all the stopping and starting, had only taken a couple of hours. She had an hour before she needed to meet Thomas Durand at Le Park Café on the Avenue de Champs Élysées. After that she would be free to find Professor Marron’s wife at her parents’ house. Claire left the station and walked along the Quai d’Austerlitz.

  She felt hungry. She didn’t want to eat at the rendezvous, so she ran across the busy street to a café. She ordered coffee and an open cheese sandwich and found a table. While she waited she took from her bag the copy of the Métro directory that Éric Marron had given her. The small book gave the names of Paris’ underground stations and times of the trains. It also had a comprehensive street map of the city folded neatly in the back. Claire laid the directory on the table and carefully opened the map square by square until the whole of Paris lay before her. The paper was thin. It felt like tissue paper. She worried that it would tear before she was able to find the street where Madame Marron’s parents lived. She scanned the maze of streets and avenues. Éric had said it was central, quite near the Champs Élysées, which Claire found almost immediately. She closed her eyes to remember what else Éric had said, what he had shown her on his father’s map. Six. Yes, there was a six. Her photographic memory could be a nightmare, literally, but now if she could only bring the information the boy had given her to the front of her mind it would be a godsend. Sixty. The SOE offices are number sixty-four, Éric’s grandmother’s address is sixty-five! That was it, 65 Avenue St. Julien. Claire looked again. Just a few stops further on the Métro from the Champs Élysées. Not quite the centre of Paris, as Éric had said, but not far away either. Claire memorised the route, folded the map and put it back in her bag. Her refreshments arrived. She thanked the waiter and bit into her sandwich hungrily. She had woken feeling nervous, which built into a feeling of nausea, so she had given breakfast a miss, saying she didn’t have time. The truth was she felt overwhelmed by the thought of travelling to Paris and having to find her way about on her own. She didn’t tell Édith how she felt or she’d have insisted André or Frédéric accompany her. She looked out of the window at the busy Parisian thoroughfare and laughed. Travelling from Orléans to Paris had been no more difficult than travelling from Rugby to London, but it was a great deal more exciting. She washed her sandwich down with coffee, put a franc on the table and left.

  Claire walked along the Rue d’Austerlitz in the summer sunshine and crossed the River Seine by the Austerlitz Bridge. The Resistance had taken down some of the street names to confuse the Germans. Claire didn’t know about the Germans, but the lack of information certainly confused her. She turned right after the bridge and right again into the Boulevard de la Bastille. A few minutes later she was stopped in her tracks by the splendour that was L’Opéra. With its large arcades and tall pillars behind marble figurines, the opera house was the most beautiful building she had ever seen. She looked at the upper levels. Tall double columns framed huge windows and above that, breath-taking, thrilling decoration. She wished she had time to look inside. ‘One day,’ she said to herself.

  After walking for half an hour, Claire sat on a bench overlooking a small fountain and took out the Métro map. She was in the Marais district, bordering the 3rd and 4th arrondissements, so she was heading in the right direction. She continued along the Rue Saint-Antoine to the Place de la Concorde. She marvelled at the vastness of the squares, the lifelike statues, the tiered fountain that reminded her of a cake stand, and what had to be the tallest obelisk in the world. From there she walked west along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, passing palaces, monuments, and a theatre. She came to a parade of shops by a small park, and slowed her pace. According to the directions she had memorised, she was close to the rendezvous. There were several cafés with tables and chairs outside on the pavement. She looked at the names above the different coloured s
triped awnings. The third in the row was Le Park Café.

  She checked her wristwatch. She had time to buy a newspaper from the shop next to the café. With the Paris-Soir under her arm she sat down at the table furthest away from the café’s entrance. She read the paper and when the waiter came, ordered coffee.

  She sipped her coffee, occasionally looking across the avenue at the people passing by, as anyone who was new to the city would. She took the Métro map from her bag and laid it on the table. The directory was the first clue as to who she was. She then took her wallet out to pay for her coffee.

  As the café became busy the three chairs around each table were moved about. A middle-aged man asked if he could take a chair from Claire’s table. Smiling, she said, ‘Please do.’ If someone asked for the remaining chair she would have to let them take it. Then where would Thomas Durand sit when he arrived? If he arrived…

  ‘Excuse me, Miss. Is anyone sitting here?’

  Claire jumped. Deep in thought, the sound of a man’s voice took her by surprise. She looked up. ‘Please do,’ she said, politely. The man, tall, in his mid-twenties, with black hair curling over the collar of his shirt, pulled out the chair and sat down. Claire resumed reading her newspaper.

  The waiter brought the man a cup of coffee. ‘Your usual,’ he said, putting the coffee on the table.

  ‘Thank you, Armand,’ the man said.

  By the way the waiter spoke to him, and because the man knew the waiter’s name, he was obviously a regular customer. Claire felt disappointment and gratitude at the same time. Disappointed because the man sitting opposite her wasn’t who she was expecting and grateful for the same reason. She wondered if Thomas Durand was wandering about waiting for his chance. Or maybe he was sitting at another table, ready to join her when the regular customer left. She put the paper down and looked across the avenue. Then she casually brought her focus to the men at the other tables.