China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Claire thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. I would love to, of course, but if she wakes in the night and sees a strange person-- I mean, someone other than you in your bed, it may upset her. In a couple of days I shall be leaving again and I don’t know how long I’ll be away. No,’ Claire said again, ‘to break her routine would be confusing for her. When I return I shall be working in the Gisoir area. Perhaps then, but not tonight. Besides, I wouldn’t get any sleep. I’d lie awake and watch her all night.’ Claire yawned and stood up. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, my dear friend.’ She kissed Édith goodnight and went up to bed.

  The next morning, after an erratic night’s sleep, Claire felt something, or someone, leaning on her. She opened her eyes and saw Aimée sitting on the bed, watching her. ‘Hello, Aimée.’ The little girl walked her doll up Claire’s arm and nuzzled her under the chin. ‘And good morning, Tricoté.’

  ‘Grandma say come,’ Aimée said, sliding off the bed. Waving her dolly in the air, she ran out of the room. Claire sat up and watched her descend the stairs on her bottom, calling, ‘Grandma? Grandma?’

  Claire swung her legs out of bed, pushed her feet into her slippers and threw on her dressing gown. She went downstairs to fetch water to wash, but stayed there drinking coffee with Édith. ‘Aimée called you Grandma,’ she said.

  Édith looked up, a worried expression on her face. ‘Do you mind, my dear?’

  ‘Of course not. It is who you are to her.’

  ‘Thérèse calls me grandma when she speaks of the baby. I think Aimée has heard her and doesn’t want to be left out. She is a bright one, this beautiful child of yours,’ Édith said, straightening Aimée’s bibbed pinafore, before scooping a soft boiled egg out of its shell and mashing it up in Aimée’s dish.

  Claire watched Aimée as she dipped strips of buttered bread, which Claire’s mother had called soldiers, into the yolk of her egg in the same way as she had when she was Aimée’s age. When she had finished Aimée took the last soldier and put it up to her doll’s mouth. ‘Come on,’ she cajoled, ‘eat all up.’ Then she dabbed the doll’s mouth with her pinafore. ‘Good girl.’

  Claire wanted to laugh at her clever, funny little daughter. Aimée looked up at her with wide eyes, and Claire smiled. Aimée had changed so much while she had been away in England. She could say lots of words – and she could put them together and make sentences. ‘Have you finished your breakfast, Aimée?’ Édith asked.

  ‘Yes, Grandma.’ Aimée closed her mouth, pressed her lips together and held out her hands. Édith took a flannel from beside the sink and wiped egg and butter from her face and hands. When she had finished, Aimée held up her doll and Édith wiped her too.

  ‘I think I’d better wash my face, before I go into town,’ Claire said, taking the bowl from beneath the sink and filling it with water. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said to Aimée, taking Édith in, as she left the kitchen.

  Édith was making coffee and Thérèse, with Aimée on her knee, was looking at a story book with pictures of ladybirds and bees when Claire returned from Gisoir. ‘Ah, you are back,’ Édith said. She took the shopping basket out of Claire’s hand and put it on the table at the side of the sink among a pile of half prepared vegetables. ‘Take off your coat and sit down.’ After pouring coffee, Édith produced a tin with the German flag on its lid.

  Claire’s eyes widened. ‘What the--?’ She looked at the side of the tin and read Qualität schokolade kekse, Deutschland. She opened it and laughed. ‘Where on earth did you get German chocolate biscuits?’

  ‘André. The last train he and Pierre sabotaged was being prepared to pick up some high ranking German officers in Blois and take them south. An SS guard, assuming André was an engineer because he was in work clothes, ordered him to get on with his job. And this is what he left the train with!’ Édith laughed, holding up a packet of real coffee. ‘And the chocolate biscuits.’

  ‘A perk of the job,’ André said, entering the kitchen from the hall.

  ‘André.’ Claire put her arms around her comrade. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Tonight, immediately after curfew.’ André took a map from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. With one hand he pointed to the area that they were heading for. With the other he drew an imaginary line parallel with the road, but through the fields and woods. ‘We travel on foot as far as here.’ He tapped the map. ‘We stay away from the main roads because there are road blocks. But never mind for now. We’ll discuss it later when Pierre and Marcel get here.’

  ‘Come now, children, drink the coffee and eat the biscuits Die Schicklgruber gave you,’ Édith said. Everyone laughed. Aimée squealed and clapped her small hands – which made them laugh more.

  It had been years since Claire had tasted real coffee. If coffee could be found in the shops in London it was Camp, which left a sickly bitter-sweet aftertaste in your mouth. She closed her eyes, inhaled the aroma, and sipped the delicious beverage. When she opened her eyes she looked across the table to see Aimée watching her. She smiled at her daughter and put out her hands. Aimée wriggled down from Thérèse’s lap and disappeared under the table.

  ‘Aimée, no! Walk round the table, please,’ Édith said. ‘You will bump your head one of these days, and we know what will happen then, don’t we?’ Édith looked under the table.

  Aimée arrived at Claire’s side unscathed and held her arms out to be lifted up. Once on Claire’s knee, Aimée put her hand on her head and said, ‘No bang Grandma, no...’

  Claire looked at Thérèse and they both laughed. ‘Sorry, Édith,’ Claire said. ‘We shouldn’t laugh when she does something you tell her not to do, but--’

  ‘But she is funny. And she knows it too, don’t you?’ Aimée giggled. ‘She knows exactly what she is doing. She is a little madam,’ Édith said, wagging her finger playfully.

  Aimée put her hands up and Édith bent down. When Édith’s face was almost touching Aimée’s she squealed and put her arms around Édith’s neck. ‘Grandma!’ she said, making a show of kissing Édith.

  That night, after bathing her daughter, Claire put her in her nightgown, sat her on the stool in front of Édith’s dressing table mirror and brushed her hair. ‘Aimée?’ Aimée looked up at Claire with big blue eyes, eager to hear what her mother had to say. Claire didn’t know how to tell her daughter that she was going away again. She couldn’t tell her she was going with Uncle André and Uncles Pierre and Marcel. Her small daughter spoke sentences now and chatted to anyone who would listen. If Édith or Thérèse took her into Gisoir shopping and they were stopped and questioned by the Gestapo – which happened all too often these days – Aimée, in her innocence, might say something to cause them to be suspicious. The Gestapo probably wouldn’t take any notice of a child, but Claire couldn’t take the risk; the consequences were too terrible to contemplate. ‘I’m going away tomorrow, darling, but I’ll be back very soon,’ she said.

  Aimée leaned forward, took the photograph of Claire from the dressing table, looked at it, and her bottom lip quivered. Claire thought her heart would break. She cleared her throat, put the hairbrush down and knelt beside Aimée. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It will be the last time Mummy leaves you, I promise. All right?’ she said, pushing a wisp of hair from Aimée’s face. The little girl nodded. ‘Good girl.’ Forcing herself not to show how upset she was, Claire put her arms round her daughter and held her tight. ‘And,’ she said, ‘while I’m away, I would like you to look after Grandma Édith and Aunt Thérèse. Will you do that for me?’

  Brightening, Aimée nodded. Jumping down from the stool, she put the photograph and her doll on the bed and clambered onto it. Taking the doll by the arm, she put her under the covers, leaving only her head showing. Then she took the photograph of Claire, kissed it and said, ‘Night, night, Mummy.’ Kneeling on her pillow, she put the photograph on the small table between her bed and Édith’s. Without taking her eyes off the photograph, she wriggled down and pulled the bedclothes up to her
chin.

  ‘Aimée, have you got a kiss for Mummy?’ Aimée looked up at the photograph. Claire realised that for a long time Mummy had been the photograph and her daughter was preparing herself for that again. Claire bit back her tears and sat on the edge of Aimée’s bed. ‘I promise--’ She had no right to make her daughter promises that she might not be able to keep, but she did it anyway. ‘I promise I will come back soon, and when I do, I will never go away again.’ Aimée reached up, put her arms around Claire’s neck, and hung on. Claire lowered her head until it was on the pillow. Her face was so close to her daughter’s she could feel her warm breath on her cheek. She watched Aimée’s eyes grow heavy and close.

  Claire sensed someone at the door. It was time to go, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to wake her daughter. When she was sure Aimée was asleep, Claire kissed her on the forehead and slowly shifted her weight from the bed. Kneeling beside her, Claire took Aimée’s small hands, put them under the bedclothes and tucked her in.

  Claire clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out, left her daughter’s bedroom and went into her own. Trying to put Aimée into a safe but unobtrusive place in her mind, she quickly took off her dress and put on thick socks, trousers, boots, shirt, and combat jacket. She went to the wardrobe and from the small space between the top and the ceiling she took a knife and truncheon. She wrapped them in a towel and hid them in the false bottom of her rucksack. She packed her wash bag, towel, and a spare set of clothes. When she was satisfied she had everything, she returned to the wardrobe and took down her gun. She checked it carefully and put it in the front right-hand pocket of her jacket. She was almost ready.

  Claire looked in the long mirror at the side of the door and stood up straight. She had a job to do, which she would not be able to do unless she was fully committed to it. She picked up her rucksack, threw it over her shoulder and slipped her hand into her pocket. The hard cold metal that met her fingers reminded her why she had joined the SOE, and why she had chosen to work with the Resistance in France. Putting everything and everyone she loved into the furthest compartment of her mind, Claire affirmed her commitment to a free world and to ending fascism, whatever it took. She left her bedroom, mentally and physically ready to do that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Moving quickly and quietly, Claire followed Pierre. André led the way and Marcel brought up the rear. They stayed close and moved swiftly through woods and copses that ran parallel with the country roads. It took them two hours to get to Meung-sur-Loire, three times longer than it would have taken them had they been able to travel by road, but they had seen spotter planes flying low over the Loire and doubling back above the roads, so they stuck to the woods.

  Other Resistance groups that Claire had worked with were north of Gisoir, around Orléans, or in Paris. This terrain – dense woodland and ground cover so thick in brambles and briars it cut and stung your legs – was alien to her. It was hard going and Claire was relieved when André stopped in a small clearing. Taking the map and a torch from his jacket pocket he beckoned Pierre, who shaded the faint beam beneath his large hands. A second later André whispered, ‘Devil's Bridge.’ Folding the map and returning it to his pocket, he said, ‘This is where we cross the river.’ He took off his rucksack and handed it to Marcel. ‘I shall see if it is safe.’

  There was nowhere to sit, so they shook out their legs, rotating their ankles and rubbing their hands together. Claire thought it was the damp wood that made her clothes and hair wet, but looking in the direction of the bridge to where the wood was less dense, she saw fine rain. She hugged herself, shifted her weight from one leg to the other and saw a movement in the trees.

  With his head down André ran into the clearing. ‘There’s a roadblock on this side of the bridge and I can see a dozen sentries posted on it. We will have to cross further down.’

  ‘What about Beaugency?’ Claire asked.

  ‘It’s more than seven kilometres away. It would take us an hour if we could travel by road, which we can’t. No, we’ll have to cross somewhere nearer.’

  ‘I know somewhere,’ Pierre said. ‘It’s a couple of kilometres down river.’

  Pierre led the way. Eventually he stopped. ‘We are here,’ he whispered. ‘The bridge is on the other side of the road.’ Claire watched him, head down and body low, dash across the road and into the field. Once safely in the long grass he fell to the ground. André was next. Claire looked to Marcel. He nodded. Keeping as low as possible, they followed André. They lay in the grass for some time. When they were sure they had not been seen they each got to their knees and crawled to the riverbank.

  Pierre pointed to a wooden footbridge with rope handrails. ‘I’ll try it, see if it holds.’

  Claire looked up. The footbridge rose steeply above the swollen river to a high bank on the other side. The wind gusted and it began to swing. It looked unstable. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t go on until we find a regular bridge?’

  ‘The nearest is at Meung. It’s too far,’ Pierre said. ‘Let me see if this one is strong enough to take our weight before we go on.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw dim lights. She turned and looked north. ‘Germans!’ she hissed. ‘Pierre?’ He turned. ‘Get down!’ They all slid down the river bank and lay in the reeds at the water’s edge until the convoy of German vehicles had passed.

  ‘Shit!’ André said,’ that was close. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s dangerous to hang about. I think we should cross here.’ Pierre and Marcel agreed. ‘You can swim, can’t you, Claire?’

  ‘Yes but I don’t intend to, not carrying this lot,’ she said, hitching up her rucksack.

  ‘Okay, I’m the heaviest, I’ll go first.’ Pierre looked at André. ‘If I get across without bringing the bridge down, you come after me. Claire next and you, Marcel, will cross last. The bridge will be at its weakest, but you are the strongest swimmer.’

  Pierre pulled on the wooden slats of the makeshift bridge. He put his hand up, which meant it was strong enough to take him. Claire hoped it was. He then took hold of the ropes at the side and hauled himself up.

  Standing in the mud at the water’s edge, Claire watched Pierre inch his way along the bridge. When he arrived at the halfway point the bridge began to sway. With her heart in her mouth, Claire watched the big man freeze. Clinging to the ropes he stood motionless until the bridge was stable again. Then he walked slowly and firmly until he stepped off on the other side of the river. Claire looked at André and Marcel. She could see in their faces that, like her, they had been worried.

  André took off his rucksack and took two packages from it. He gave them to Claire. ‘This is the dynamite for the pylons. Pierre, Marcel, and I are carrying equal amounts for the tunnel. If anything happens to any of us, you must go on and sabotage the pylons.’ Claire understood and put the packages in her rucksack.

  André crossed the bridge in the same way that Pierre had done, waiting when it began to sway and moving again with even steps when it steadied. Finally, Pierre’s strong hands grasped André’s wrists and pulled him onto firm ground. As soon as André reached the other side, Claire began her journey. She placed a muddy boot on the first rung of the ladder, but it slipped off almost immediately. She stumbled, regained her balance and tried again. This time, gripping the rope handrail, she put her foot down more firmly and hauled herself up quickly, so both feet were level on the first rung. The ladder swayed with the sudden impact. It was raining hard and the wind seemed stronger. She could hear the river running fast beneath her and looked down. She wished she hadn’t, wobbled, and immediately looked up again. Pierre and André were beckoning her, nodding encouragingly. Keeping her eyes on them, Claire planted her feet firmly on each slippery wooden slat and, gripping the rope-handles on either side to keep herself standing upright, she slowly walked on. After a short pause midway while she waited for the sagging rope ladder to stop swinging in the increasing wind, she arrived on the other side of the riv
er and was hauled to safety by her comrades.

  Still trembling, Claire watched Marcel pull himself onto the bridge. She put her hand up to shield her eyes from the rain. It was lashing down now and the wind had whipped up. After a few steps Marcel stopped. The bridge was swaying, not from his weight, but from the strong wind. Claire looked at André. His forehead was creased with worry. Rain dripped from the peak on his cap and he wiped his hand across his face. She looked back to Marcel. He was tentatively walking towards them. She sighed with relief. In the middle of the bridge he halted as the rest of them had done and waited for the sway to ease. When it did he walked on carefully and purposefully. As Marcel neared the end of the bridge and safety, Pierre put his hand out and his brother reached for it. Suddenly the handrail on the right snapped and fell into the swirling river, sending Marcel sliding sideways. Clinging to the left handrail, Marcel flung his right arm out and caught hold of a wooden rung. He looked up at his comrades and, as his body hung above the engorged river, began to swing his legs backwards and forwards. With every undulating movement the rope ladder weakened, but Marcel didn’t stop. Finally he hooked the ladder with the toe of his boot and after several frantic jerks pulled it to him. Suspended in the air, with the rain driving down and the river raging beneath him, Marcel heaved himself up until he was lying on the ladder’s slippery rungs. He lay face down for several minutes. Claire prayed for his safety harder than she had done since she’d prayed for Mitch. With the Loire threatening, Marcel inched his way along the ladder on his stomach. Claire and André held Pierre round the waist to stop him from sliding forwards in the mud and again, when Marcel was a few feet from him, Pierre put out his hand. Marcel looked up, let go of the left handrail and reached out to his brother. As their fingers met, the rope rail flew out of its fixing on the riverbank, struck Marcel across his back, and plunged into the river. Marcel hollered, grasped the ladder with both hands, and clung on.