A Fire Sparkling

by MacLean, Julianne

  “Try and visit her, of course. Gram said they lost touch. I’d like to meet Daphne and talk to her about her life. I can show her pictures of Gram on my phone. But think about it, Dad. She was interrogated by Ludwig too. She might be able to shed more light on him, or maybe she might know something about what happened to him after the war. Or point me in the direction of someone who could help.”

  “I thought you were going to look into that when you got to Berlin.”

  “I will, but she met him, Dad. In the flesh. I want to talk to her about it.”

  He sighed into the phone. “I doubt she’ll sing his praises.”

  “I know. I just want information. Anything.”

  “Well. See what you can find out. But I’m not going to tell Gram anything about it just yet. I know she wouldn’t want you to go around digging into that stuff. But I understand why you need to, and I want to know more too. Let me know what happens.”

  “I will. But I should go now. It’s starting to rain again. Give Gram a hug for me. Bye.”

  We ended the call, and I opened my umbrella.

  When I arrived back at my hotel, which overlooked the Tower Bridge, I opened my laptop and did some research. I discovered that personnel files from the SOE during the war years were kept at the National Archives at Kew, but the only files open to the public were for those agents who were deceased, which meant Gram’s file, as well as Daphne’s, were still under lock and key.

  After spending over an hour watching all sorts of news items and snippets from documentaries about the SOE, I made a few phone calls and pretended to be an American writer doing a story on the war. Before long, I had Daphne’s home phone number written on the hotel stationery, and I was told she lived with her son and daughter-in-law. I entered the number into the keypad on my cell, and it rang three times before a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello there,” I replied. “Um . . . I hope I’m calling the right number. I’m looking for Daphne Graham.”

  “Yes, you have the right number. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I walked to the window and looked out at the Tower Bridge, which was just lifting to allow a tall schooner to pass beneath it.

  “There is, actually. I’d really love to speak with Daphne, because she and my grandmother knew each other during the war. They worked together in France. My grandmother was a courier as well.”

  The woman paused. “What was her name?”

  “Vivian Hughes. But she went by the code name Simone.” I waited nervously for the woman to respond. She seemed to take forever.

  “Gosh,” she finally said. “Is your grandmother still alive?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s been living in the US since the war ended, and I only just learned about her involvement with the SOE this past week.”

  She seemed to ponder that. “Are you calling from America?”

  “No, I’m in London right now, but only for a few more days. Do you think Daphne might be willing to see me?”

  Again, the woman paused. “I’ll have to ask her. She’s sleeping right now, and I’m afraid she gets confused sometimes. What’s your number? I can call you back this evening. My name is Lucinda, by the way. I’m her daughter-in-law.”

  “Thank you so much, Lucinda. I’d really appreciate it.” I gave her the number of the hotel, as well as my cell number. Then I went out to get some lunch.

  When I returned an hour later, the little red light on the phone in my room was blinking. I accessed the message, and it was from Lucinda. She said I was welcome to pay a visit to Daphne the following morning at ten o’clock, and she gave me an address in Chelsea.

  When I arrived at the correct address—an elegant white-stucco town house with wrought iron railings on a second-floor balcony—I climbed the steps and rang the bell. The heavy black door swung open, and a man and a woman greeted me.

  “You must be Gillian,” the woman said with a warm smile. She looked to be in her early sixties and wore her silver hair tied up in a loose bun. “Please come in. I’m Lucinda, and this is my husband, Albert.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” I entered a grand hall with polished hardwood flooring and white-painted walls. A large wrought iron chandelier was suspended above a round mahogany table in the center of the hall, upon which stood a vase of fresh flowers.

  Lucinda took my coat and hung it in a closet.

  Albert was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with glasses and smooth white hair with a clean part on the side. He wore a blue dress shirt and gray trousers.

  “Mum was over the moon when we told her who you were,” he said. “She hasn’t been doing any interviews or appearances these past few months because her health hasn’t been great, but let me tell you, when we mentioned your grandmother’s name, she perked right up.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” I replied, feeling surprised and encouraged. I wasn’t sure what I had expected in coming here, but it certainly wasn’t this. They were looking at me like a long-lost family member.

  “Please, come this way,” Lucinda said. “Daphne is just through here.”

  They led me past a large formal reception room with a grand piano, a marble fireplace, and another gigantic chandelier into the kitchen. Sandwiches, cakes, and a china teapot were spread out on the kitchen island, and I felt like visiting royalty.

  Then my gaze fell upon Daphne, who was slumped forward in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket draped over her lap. She looked very frail.

  A man with wavy dark hair was seated on the sofa next to her, and when I entered, he rose to greet me. He was dressed casually in canvas trousers, a cotton golf shirt, and running shoes.

  “This is our son, Geoffrey,” Lucinda said. “Geoffrey, this is Gillian.”

  He stepped around the sofa to shake my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too. Thanks so much for having me.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” Lucinda and Albert gushed at the same time.

  We turned our attention to Daphne, who had covered her mouth with her blue-veined hand. “My word. You look so much like her. You’re the spitting image. It’s like traveling back in time.” She waved me closer. “Come over here, my darling, so that I can have a good look at you. Give me a hug.”

  I bent forward to embrace her. “It’s wonderful to meet you. My grandmother told me so much about you.”

  “She was a good friend. Now, sit down next to me. Would you care for some tea?”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Everyone was all smiles as Lucinda poured me a cup and brought it to where I was seated in a chair next to Daphne. Geoffrey sat with his temple resting on a finger, watching his grandmother with a smile of affection.

  “So, how is she?” Daphne asked me.

  “She’s very well,” I replied. “She still lives in the same farmhouse she’s lived in since coming to America, and she’s healthy as a horse. She plays piano every Saturday afternoon at a local nursing home, and she hosts a bridge club a few times a month. Still does her own taxes.” Everyone laughed.

  “What about Jack?” Daphne asked. “Is he still . . . ?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid not. He passed away more than ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He was such a handsome man. A real hero. She did well, marrying that one.” Daphne winked at me, and I smiled.

  “She certainly did.” I sipped my tea and set the cup on the saucer. “My father lives with her now. He’s widowed also.”

  “That’s too bad. Your mother . . .”

  “Yes. We lost her to cancer. I was nineteen at the time.” I left out the part about how she had drowned in a bathtub when I was supposed to have been taking care of her. It was best left unsaid.

  “What brings you to London, Gillian?” Geoffrey asked.

  I turned in my seat to face him. “I’ve never been here before, and I’ve always wanted to visit. And you may be surprised to hear this, but
I didn’t know anything about my grandmother being a secret agent during the war. She only told us about it last week.”

  Geoffrey’s head drew back in astonishment. “Really.”

  Daphne wagged a gnarly finger. “It’s not surprising at all. Back then, we weren’t allowed to tell anyone anything. We had to keep our mouths shut for years. It was all top secret. My mother didn’t even know what I did. She thought I was with the FANYs.”

  “The FANYs?” I asked.

  “First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—a women’s volunteer corps. That was the uniform I wore, so no one knew.”

  We chatted further about the SOE, and I asked about Armand, their circuit organizer. I wondered if he was Albert’s father.

  “I’m afraid Armand never made it home from France,” Daphne explained. “He was captured just before the liberation of Paris and taken to a prison camp in Germany.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  She went on to tell me about her life after the war. For years, she worked as a teacher at a French language school in London, but she retired from that career when she married a real estate developer who had emigrated from Canada. There had been plenty of rebuilding to do after the war.

  She and her husband enjoyed a happy life together and raised three children. Albert was the eldest. The two daughters lived in the country, but they visited often.

  I showed her pictures of Gram and my father, which brought a smile to her face. But I could see, after about an hour, that Daphne was growing tired. She began to have trouble answering questions.

  Lucinda approached and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Would you like to lie down now, Daphne?”

  “Yes, I think that would be good,” she replied.

  Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t asked her anything about my grandfather, but it hardly seemed appropriate for me to whip out photographs of a German Nazi who had tortured her at Gestapo headquarters all those years ago. I couldn’t bring myself to spoil the visit with such a dark and ugly topic. So, I left the photographs in my purse and gave Daphne a kiss on the cheek before Lucinda wheeled her away.

  “I should probably be going,” I said, rising to my feet when Lucinda returned to the sitting room. “I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to meet Daphne. It was very special.”

  “It was special for us too,” Albert replied. “She spoke about your grandmother many times. They were good friends in France, and she always regretted that they lost touch.”

  “My grandmother regretted it as well.”

  As they walked me to the door, Geoffrey said to his parents, “I should head out too. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He kissed his mother on the cheek and turned to me. “Are you taking the tube?”

  “Yes. I’m staying at the Tower Hotel.”

  “We’re practically neighbors, then,” he said. “I live directly across the river. I’ll walk with you?”

  “Sure.”

  We left the town house and started down the street.

  “So, Gillian . . . what do you do back home?” Geoffrey asked, sliding his hands into his pockets.

  “I work for a nonprofit organization that raises breast cancer awareness, and we do fund-raising for research.”

  “That sounds like a noble undertaking. Is that because of what happened to your mom?” When I didn’t answer right away, he said, “I’m sorry—that’s a personal question. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “It’s fine. And yes, that’s what led me there. I was doing a lot of volunteer work during college, and that’s how I met my boss. When a position opened up, she thought of me.”

  “It must be very fulfilling.”

  We stopped at an intersection and waited for a walk signal. “It is. What about you? What do you do?”

  “I’m an estate agent—what you Americans call a Realtor. It’s kind of the family business.”

  I looked at him for a moment—at the way he was dressed in a well-worn jacket and running shoes. His hair was a bit wild and wavy. He was the polar opposite of Malcolm, who was always exceptionally well groomed, wearing the most expensive labels money could buy.

  “What is it?” Geoffrey asked with a grin, catching me staring longer than I should have been.

  “I’m sorry.” I chuckled. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you were in real estate.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I always imagined London Realtors would be slick and cosmopolitan, with designer shoes and skinny black ties. You’ve sort of got a Mark Ruffalo thing going on. You could be brothers, except for the accent.”

  “Me? I don’t have an accent. Mark Ruffalo has an accent.”

  I laughed as we walked into Sloane Square station and made our way through the ticket barriers.

  “Besides, it’s Saturday,” he added. “Saturdays are for trainers.” We both looked down at our feet. I was wearing the Nikes I had bought the day before. “See?”

  I laughed. “I guess so.”

  We went down the stairs and moved with the crowd to the platform for the Circle Line train heading east. It came right away, and as it approached, a breeze from the underground tunnel blew my hair.

  “It’s busy today,” Geoffrey said as we waited for passengers to get off.

  “Should we wait for the next one?” I asked, not sure if we could squeeze on.

  “No, let’s go. We can fit.” He guided me on first and stepped in behind me. The doors closed, and the train lurched forward.

  It was tight and crowded, and we bumped up against each other a few times as we stood swaying together, making eye contact frequently. He grinned, seeming amused by how we were all packed in there like sardines.

  Ten stops later, we arrived at Tower Hill station and were reminded to mind the gap as we stepped off.

  “It’s this way,” Geoffrey said, touching my arm to lead me in the right direction off the platform.

  Soon, we were outside of the busy station, walking behind the Tower of London.

  “I still can’t believe I’m here,” I said, looking up at the thick, ancient stone walls. “When I was young, I was a huge Dickens fan. Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol. Those were my favorites. And then, of course, I loved Mary Poppins. I wanted to come here for such a long time.”

  “It’s a great city,” he replied.

  “I suppose, if you live here, you probably take all that for granted.”

  “Never. Every time I look out my window, I think to myself, Look at that spectacular bridge. What a view.”

  “You’ll have to show me where you live,” I said. “Right across the river?”

  “I’ll point it out to you.”

  We walked through a tunnel under the road to a pedestrian thoroughfare that took us to my hotel.

  “Have you been able to do much sightseeing since you’ve been here?” Geoffrey asked.

  I told him what I’d done so far, and he recommended evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. “It’s free, and the choirs are amazing.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  When we arrived at the entrance to my hotel, Geoffrey pointed across the river. “See where it says Butler’s Wharf? I’m in that building to the left. The whole area used to be dockyards, but now it’s all condos.”

  “What a great spot.”

  We stood for a moment, watching a party boat pass by on the Thames. “La Bamba” was blasting from the speakers, and the open top deck was packed with tourists taking photos of the Tower Bridge as they passed beneath it.

  Geoffrey looked at his watch and turned to me. “Do you have any plans right now?”

  His question caught me off guard because I had come here to be alone and recover from my heartbreak back home, and I’d spent the past few days keeping to myself and doing just that. But I had to admit I was getting a bit lonely, not having anyone to talk to and doing everything on my own. That morning, I’d struck up a conversation with my server at breakfast, and I’d kept her at my table chatting longer th
an I should have.

  “No, I don’t have any plans,” I replied. “My visit to your parents’ house was all I had on the agenda for today.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m kind of hungry. Do you want to get some lunch?”

  “That sounds great.” I looked around. “Do you know any good places to go around here? You probably do, since you live here.”

  “We could go into St. Katharine Docks. There’s a pub at The Dickens Inn, and since you’re a Dickens fan . . .”

  “That sounds perfect. Lead the way.”

  He took me around the back of the hotel to a charming little marina, where sailboats and pleasure boats were sheltered in a courtyard-like setting. They were surrounded by restaurants, cafés, and condos. “This is gorgeous,” I said.

  “I like to think of it as London’s best-kept secret, except that everyone knows about it.”

  I laughed as we walked across the wide cobblestone plaza to the restaurant, which was inside an old warehouse with high timber-beam ceilings. Climbing the creaky wooden staircase to the top floor, we passed framed black-and-white photographs of old London along the way. A server seated us at a table, gave us menus, and brought us drinks while we decided what to order.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my wineglass. “Thanks for suggesting this. It’s nice to hang out with someone.”

  “Because you’re here on your own.” He knew this because I had mentioned it back at his parents’ place.

  I had the feeling he was curious about my personal situation, but I didn’t want to go into all the gory details about my broken-down love life back home in New York, so I was intentionally vague. “That’s right.”

  The waiter arrived and took our food orders, then collected the menus and left us alone again.

  Geoffrey leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “So, I have to ask . . .”

  I felt a little jolt at the way he was looking at me, as if he knew I was hiding something.

  “Yes?”

  “Was there something else you wanted to ask my grandmother this morning? Because you looked disappointed when my mom interrupted and wheeled her away. Like you weren’t quite finished.”