Over the months, Tony managed to see Sarah every time he was home. He noticed a gradual easing of her pain. He knew she still mourned Joe deeply, but she was coming to terms with his death, and remembering their times together with a poignant happiness. In her turn, Sarah had come to rely on Tony’s support. He seemed to understand the depth of her loss, maybe because the loss of his brother was still a fresh scar on his heart; and he was able to make her smile again. Slowly, imperceptibly, Tony began to forge a place for himself in her life. It was still far too early for her to think of love. She still wore Joe’s ring, and often wept when she contemplated life without him. She did not even have a child of his to remember him by, for she had refused him when he wanted to make love to her. How bitterly she regretted that now. In the dark of the night her body cried out for his touch, wanting him with an ache which could never be assuaged. She cried herself to sleep, knowing she had denied Joe this one happiness with her wish to remain a virgin until she married. How wrong she had been. She would now never know that intimate touch of love; never hear him whisper her name at that ultimate moment of passion; never take his seed to herself and create a new life, a part of him to love and cherish for the rest of her days.
The real depth of Sarah’s loss was kept hidden, a secret part of her which she would never share. No one would ever take the place of Joe, but as her friendship with Tony deepened, she found herself looking forward to his weekends at Heronfield when she could forget, for a while, her sadness and loss.
56
Tony faced Captain Dawson across the green leather expanse of the desktop. The officer’s face was stern as he told Tony why he had been called to London.
"As you know, one of our major problems at the moment is supply, both to this country and to our forces overseas. U-boat packs are making it difficult for convoys to cross the Atlantic, and we can hardly afford the losses we are currently sustaining."
“Yes, sir."
"Since early this year, we have come to believe that the Germans have been constructing submarine pens on the Atlantic coast of France, Brest, La Rochelle, Lorient. Now we have reason to believe they may be building pens in the region of Saint Nazaire." He smiled grimly at Tony’s expression. "I think you've probably already guessed what I’m going to ask of you, Kemshall. You have intimate knowledge of the Saint Nazaire area, so we want you to go there and find those pens."
"And when I have found them?"
"Destroy them." Dawson leant forward, resting his arms on the desktop. "I don't have to tell you how vital this is to our war effort. Find those submarine bases, Kemshall, and call down an air attack on them. We have to reduce the number of U-boat packs out in the Atlantic, if we're to survive long enough to win this war."
"Yes, sir."
The Captain leant back in his chair as he perused the eager young man opposite, and hoped that he would not be sending him to his death.
"You will be flown into France in two days’ time, weather reports are not good enough until then. On your way down south call in at your home for an hour or two. Give them some excuse as to why you won't be visiting for a while. Perhaps you could tell them you’re going to Scotland."
Tony nodded.
"I don't have to tell you not to mention where you're really going, of course. Now, don't spend too long at home, they'll want to brief you before you go."
“Yes, sir."
Tony stood and saluted. Dawson rose to his feet and took Tony’s hand across the table.
"Good luck, Kemshall. God go with you."
"Thank you, sir."
As Tony drove from London to Heronfield his mind was in turmoil. This was it. At last he would be able to go out and do the job he had trained so long and so hard for. Deep within himself was the permanent knot of hate which he felt towards the Germans. Hate for the way they had treated the French refugees, hate for Dunkirk, hate for the way they had killed David. He knew he must keep his hatred and anger under control, but he found it difficult now he was actually preparing to drop into enemy territory. 'I'll avenge you, David;' he thought, 'and I'll make Dad proud of me.'
The red sports car pulled into the drive of Heronfield House and sent gravel flying in all directions as it came to a halt. Louise Kemshall rose from her knees beside a small rose bush with a mass of yellow blooms and smiled happily at Tony. As the sound of the engine died away, she waved and called out in greeting.
"Tony! I was not expecting you!" She laid down the bunch of roses she had been picking, and made her way across to hug her son. "Are you all right, mon cher?"
"Of course, Mamma. I have to go away for a few weeks, that’s all. I thought I'd drop in and say goodbye."
Louise frowned. "It will not be dangerous work?"
Tony laughed, a gay laugh which hid his true feelings of excitement, nervous tension, fear.
"Of course not. I just have to go up to Scotland to liaise with some factories there. I won't be able to get back until the job is done. They don't issue travel passes for that sort of distance, unless it’s absolutely necessary."
Louise smiled. "Scotland? Then that is all right. Come on in, and I will make you a cup of tea. Your father is at the factory at the moment and will not be back until later this evening."
"Then I shall miss him. I can only stay for an hour or so, and I want to say goodbye to someone at the main house too."
"One of the nurses?"
Tony coloured slightly but said nothing and Louise nodded knowingly, a smile on her lips.
"I thought so. A mother knows these things. Do you think I have not noticed you sneaking up to the house every time you are home?"
"It’s not what you think, Mamma. We’re just good friends."
Louise laughed gaily. "Of course, mon cher. Now you go and say goodbye to your friend, while I make some tea."
Tony waited for Sarah in the orchard. He had asked Sister Freeman if she could spare the nurse for a short while and she reluctantly agreed, although he could see she would not let him make a habit of it. He was watching the back door intently, hardly able to control his eagerness to see Sarah. It opened and she emerged crisp and neat in her nursing auxiliary uniform, the beautiful auburn hair pinned up beneath the starched white cap. Tony noticed that the five months since Joe’s death had changed her. She now walked with some of the old joy of living in her step, and a smile came more frequently to her lips. Tony felt a large lump in his throat, and tears pricked his eyes. This might be the last time he ever saw Sarah. Blinking the tears away, he walked rapidly towards her and took her hand in his.
"Tony! Is anything wrong? Why did you ask Sister Freeman to release me?"
Tony laughed, trying to sound as though this was just another ordinary day.
"One question at a time, please! Nothing is wrong. I asked Sister Freeman to release you so I could say goodbye."
"Goodbye?"
Sarah was conscious of his strong hand holding tightly to hers. She felt again the strange mixture of emotions which he had stirred in her of late. For a moment she feared for his safety, and the fear was evident in her eyes.
Tony smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'm only going up to Scotland, but I don't know how long I'll be gone for and I wanted to see you before I left."
Sarah smiled. "Scotland is relatively safe."
"Do you care so much for my safety, Sarah?"
"Of course I do, Tony. We're friends."
Tony took a deep breath, trying to marshal his mixed emotions. If things went wrong in France, he might never see Sarah again. This could be his last chance to tell her how he felt, but he was fearful of her rejection. He watched the dappled shadow of the apple tree play across the smooth clear skin of Sarah’s face, and licked his lips nervously.
"Are we just friends, Sarah? Don't I mean more to you than that?"
Sarah tried to pull away, but Tony held tightly to her hand. "You're more than just a friend to me, Sarah. I know you're still mourning Joe, and it will be a long time before you're ready to fa
ll in love again. But I wanted you to know how I feel."
"Why now, Tony? Why tell me this now?"
Tony shrugged, trying to hide his true feelings.
"I don't know. Perhaps it’s because I will be away for some time. I don't want you to find someone else while I'm gone."
Sarah laughed, almost the gay laugh of their earlier friendship before Joe’s death. Tony was glad to hear it.
"I won't find 'someone else' as you put it, Tony. There's no room for any man in my life at the moment."
Tony smiled. "Good, then I don't have to worry about competition while I'm away!"
Sarah was suddenly solemn. "Don't read too much into that, Tony. I'm not ready for a relationship with anyone yet, and that includes you. It's still too soon. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for another relationship."
Tony nodded understandingly. "I know."
He stroked her cheek with his free hand, his mind churning with the things he wanted to say to her but could not. Slowly he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. A gentle, lingering kiss to which Sarah found herself responding against her will. After a moment she stepped back, breaking the contact, yet still feeling the touch of his lips against hers. Feeling unsure of herself, she gently extracted her hand from his.
“Goodbye, Tony."
“Goodbye, Sarah. May I see you when I get back?"
Too full of conflicting emotions to say anything, Sarah merely nodded.
Tony smiled. That was confirmation enough for him. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Sarah watched him walk down the orchard path and out of the gate. She stood there for long minutes remembering his kiss, so unlike Joe’s, but awakening similar emotions in her. Could her feelings for Tony Kemshall be deeper than she had realised? With an angry toss of her head, she turned away. Of course not. She loved Joe. She would always love him, even though he was dead. No-one could ever take the special place he held in her heart.
57
Tony sat with his back pressed hard against the fuselage of the Whitley. He examined the gold watch given to him at his final briefing. A solid, accurate timepiece, its purpose was twofold. A gift such as this showed the faith which the leaders of Section F placed in their agents. And if it became necessary for the agent to raise extra funds while in enemy territory, any item of gold could be sold easily on the black market. Placing the watch in his breast pocket, Tony withdrew his false papers and ration cards, painstakingly produced for the SOE by forgers who had been, or were still, in prison for their crimes. In the dim light of the aircraft interior, he carefully studied the papers his life might depend on. Albert Fouquet. 22 Rue Blanc. Saint Nazaire. He knew all there was to know about Albert Fouquet, could recite it in his sleep. Date of birth, details of education and employment, parents’ names, mother’s maiden name. The list of details was almost endless, but Tony knew them as though they were the details of his own life. That was what they must be if he wished to return home again. As he put the papers in his breast pocket with the watch, and carefully buttoned it up so that nothing would get lost during his jump, his eyes were drawn to the two objects on the floor near his feet. There was a small case containing a few clothes similar to those he wore at the moment, French-made from the socks to the jacket, nothing to show that he was English. Amongst the clothing was a not insubstantial sum of money to aid him in the task ahead. The other case, slightly smaller than the first, contained his wireless set. Tony knew that if he were caught with it in his possession, his life would be forfeit. A familiar churning sensation began in the depths of his stomach. He breathed deeply, trying to control the nervous tension.
"We're crossing the coast now, sir. We should be over the drop zone in fifteen minutes."
Tony nodded at the dispatcher, too engrossed in his thoughts and feelings to reply. Was he really good enough for this job? Would he be able to do what was asked of him? As the plane droned on above the darkened countryside of Occupied France he realised that stronger than his fear of death was his fear of failure. He wondered if David had felt this, too, each time he had taken his Spitfire up against the enemy.
Time ticked by slowly. Each minute seemed an hour as they flew deeper and deeper into enemy territory. At last the dispatcher spoke again.
"Five minutes to the drop, sir. You can get ready now."
Tony tied a length of rope around each case and then fixed the other end securely to his harness. This way there was no possibility of him losing the items during the jump, the length of rope should ensure that the cases hit the ground first, minimising the chance of them injuring him. He watched the airman lift the cover from the hole in the floor of the fuselage, then stood up and fixed his ripcord to the static line, lifting the cases and holding them tightly against his chest. Carefully he shuffled over to the open hatch, just as the red light winked on.
"Two minutes to go, sir."
Tony felt the plane banking to the left to bring it in on its approach run. This was it. He glanced nervously at the dispatcher, who smiled grimly.
"I don't envy you your job, sir. It's a dangerous place down there."
Tony nodded. "Yes. But nowhere will be safe until this war is won. That's why I’m going."
The dispatcher nodded. "Good luck to you, sir."
"Thanks."
As Tony smiled his reply the red light went out and the green winked on. The dispatcher’s arm fell in a swift chopping motion.
"Go!"
Tony stepped forward through the open hatch and found himself falling, only to be pulled up with a jerk as his chute opened. He looked up, and when he was satisfied that the mushroom of silk was fully opened he let go of the cases, feeling the jerk seconds later as the ropes were extended to the full. Looking down at the ground below him Tony realised that this jump was not going to be as exhilarating as jumping in the daylight, over home ground. It was dark. The blackout meant he could see nothing at all, he realised he would be almost down before he would be able to see anything. Would he have enough time to avoid any obstacles once he saw them? The unfamiliar weight of the two cases suspended from his harness dragged at him, and made the parachute sluggish to respond to his pulls on the cords. All the time he fell, there was a knot of fear in his stomach. Had the enemy heard the plane? Was a patrol out looking for him at this very moment? Would a beam of light suddenly pierce the night, to expose him to the fire of the enemy? All his fears proved groundless and, moments later, he could see an open space rushing towards him and he was down, knees bent and rolling to prevent injury.
Tony’s training had been thorough. All his actions after landing came as second nature to him. He quickly dragged the chute in close and bundled it up, then dragged in the two cases still fixed to their ropes. With a quick look around him, he headed for the nearest shelter he could see, a small stand of trees on the far side of the field. Once inside their protection, he found an old rotting log and pushed the parachute and ropes inside, as far as he could reach, before filling the remainder of the hollow with dead leaves and ferns. He stepped back and looked at the log critically for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. No one would suspect that something was hidden there. Tony picked up the two cases and made his way along the edge of the trees, until he reached a road.
He looked around for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He was to have been dropped to the north of Saint Nazaire, about a mile from his grandmother’s estate, so if he headed west he should eventually reach familiar territory. He made his way through the field bordering the road, making sure that he kept it always in sight but keeping out of sight himself. If he were found on the road during curfew, he was likely to be shot. Once a motorbike roared along the road and he lay flat amongst the tall grass, but the bike passed straight by and he was on his feet and moving again swiftly. He must be under cover by first light.
At last, Tony came to a crossroads and knew where he was. His jump had been a little off course but not too much to worry about. He had less than a mile to go
to reach his intended destination. He left the road and cut across the fields, until he spied a small cottage. Moving closer, he hid among the trees which bordered the small vegetable patch beside the cottage, and watched. No signs of life. No lights. But that was only to be expected at four o'clock in the morning. The cottage was the home of Jean-Paul Boues, a worker on Chantrelle de Thierry’s estate, someone whom Tony knew from before the war and who, he hoped, would be willing to shelter him. There was no time to waste. If Jean-Paul could not, or would not, help him he must find somewhere else to hide during the day. Concealing the two cases in the middle of a holly bush, Tony made his way over to the front door and knocked loudly.
No reply.
He knocked again.
"Who is it?" The voice was muffled with sleep. Tony knocked once more.
"All right. I'm coming."
The door opened a crack. "What do you want at this time of night?"
Tony looked at the eye which peered around the door at him, not enough to identify the speaker by.
"Jean-Paul Boues?"
"Yes. Now who are you, and what do you want?" Jean-Paul asked gruffly. He perused the young man in peasant’s clothes who stood outside his door. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he could not be sure what. He frowned.
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