The Spy

by Marc Eden

  She beamed.

  “Cars.”

  “Bloody RAFs,” she muttered.

  “—your loyalty to the Crown.” A bit for officers, that. The fish was in the boat.

  “My country is my life,” she reminded him, recalling she had read it. “I would do anything—”

  “Exactly. And now you can. When you first came to Southampton to be trained for your job in this office, the people who met you at MI.6 assumed you were a child, dressed in adult clothing.”

  “A child?”

  “Not in terms of your... efficiency, of course.” He stared at her. “I wish I could have been there to meet you that day, a lot of valuable time might already have been saved.”

  “How kind of them to speak so well of me,” said the girl, with uncertainty. “I can hardly believe they...liked me so much.” She was embarrassed she had looked so young.

  “I am sure their praise was well deserved,” amended Hamilton. “I must say, you have a beautiful fair complexion. However, if we darken your skin with our special makeup, a little nip and tuck, as it were, you could easily pass for French.” He stepped back, appraising her like an artist. “Let’s see, a college student or”—gently touching her chin, he turned her face up into the light—“there now, that’s better.” He took a closer look. “Grade school...hmmm?”

  As the plan unfolded, Valerie felt more and more intrigued; although, admittedly, apprehensive. Not for the world, however, would she have let the Commander know.

  Hamilton, as though divining her simplicities, said: “You know, Sinclair, it is entirely up to you whether or not you go on this mission. It is strictly voluntary. I am not saying you must go.” He moved closer to the window and stared out at the docks, as though searching for another candidate. “Should you decide not to of course, we would still like to retain your services in this office, where you have proven yourself to be a most capable assistant to Lieutenant Carrington.” The point was not lost on her.

  “Something, Sinclair?”

  Valerie shook her head.

  Hamilton relaxed a little, but he did not intend to lose. He jabbed at the maps. “It is extremely dangerous, and you could be caught by the Gestapo. On the other hand, although you lack experience in espionage, your very look of innocence, of helplessness, shall we say, should make men want to come to your aid, to...ah, ‘protect’ you.”

  She blushed.

  “The ‘child spy,’ you see.”

  Her dossier at the War Office was already starting to fill. It had begun with Mrs. Churchill....

  Hamilton was looking at her. “Well?”

  “Well, I do have a bit of trouble in ordering drinks sometimes.”

  Whisky double, please.

  “There! You see? We are banking on this in helping you to outwit the Jerries. In fact, I feel the most observant German would not be in the least suspicious that you were anything other than what you purport to be—a young French girl.”

  She had it now: this was the trip.

  “If you think I can pull it off,” offered Valerie. “You know, when I was growing up—even today—I look such a kid—”

  “That is what we are counting on. In any event, we know you are most capable. The loss of your husband was a terrible blow, and yet, it did not stop you from getting yourself a job, looking after your young son, making the best of things. Importantly, you have joined His Majesty’s Navy, a most commendable action.”

  “Yes, sir. I—”

  “You know, Sinclair, the more I get to know you, the more I feel you have what it takes to pull this job off successfully. As for your late husband...well, life must go on, you know.”

  Valerie said, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  “Quite so,” rasped Hamilton.

  “I still have my son.”

  “Who will no doubt serve the Crown well, once he is a man, of course,” Commander Hamilton said. “British Naval Intelligence is the best in the business. You see, one must expect danger in this field, and be prepared. The plans for the mission are well laid.” The confirmation had come in that morning, from the Office of General LeClerc. In their deal with Blackstone, anticipated by Hamilton, the French had called on Egalité: Hamilton had used it as a ramrod, to guarantee her commission. “I think you should know, you will be accompanied by a Free French agent.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Hamilton, “another officer. You will be turning the schematics over to him, you see, for transforward to us once you commit them to memory.”

  It was Blackstone’s condition.

  “I am so glad that I will have a companion,” said Valerie, absorbing it all in small bites, the way she would nibble an apple.

  They were quiet for some moments while Hamilton enjoyed a cigarette. The horn of a tugboat cut through the hot stillness of the afternoon.

  “Do you feel comfortable about the idea?” he asked finally.

  “You mean, in pretending to be a kid?” she laughed.

  “In pretending to be a child,” he said, firmly. “How do you feel about it?”

  “Fine,” she replied.

  “You’re willing to go then?”

  “Yes... certainly.”

  “Good, then I have confidence in you.” Hamilton produced a document from the inside of his coat, and handed her a pen. “Sign here,” he said. It was the volunteer release form, absolving SOE from responsibility.

  Sinclair signed.

  “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  She was in.

  “Now that you have agreed to help us there is no time to be lost.” He pocketed the document. “Tomorrow, I want you to take the early morning train to Edinburgh. I will meet your train. From thence, we will proceed by car to Sir Donald Cameron’s place, where the British Commandos are trained—American Rangers, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He put out his cigarette, and flipped through Carrington’s desk calendar. He stopped and read, then looked up. Apparently, whatever he’d discovered did not concern her. “You have a French Christian name which fits in perfectly with what I have in mind. Your cover, you see. When the time comes, we will assign you an appropriate French surname to go with it.” He looked at his watch. “So then, shall we call you ‘Valerie’?”

  “Please do,” she said.

  “It is now 1450 hours and you are relieved of all duty. I want you to go to your parents’ home in Newton Swyre. Naturally, you will want to spend this last evening with your son, and the other members of your family.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll just stop by my flat, sir, to pack up my things.”

  “It’s already been done.”

  “Done, sir?”

  “Done.”

  “Yes, sir.” The navy owned it, she supposed they could take it. Well, she still had a few of her old outfits at home. Several business suits, from the Royal. Her red dancing dress, packed away by her mum. Clothes that her father had given her, things that her mother had saved. The blue robe...

  “Now then,” said Hamilton, “about your parents—”

  Valerie heard him, she was thinking of mothballs. Smelled like old admirals, they did!

  “Your parents, Sinclair.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You will tell them that you are being sent to Southampton for further training on your present job. As for Lieutenant Carrington, we’ll take care of that on this end. Any personal items in your desk?” She opened the drawers, and looked. There were just a few, she put them in her purse. She found room for her husband’s photo; she would give it to her son. Hamilton watched her, but kept his thoughts in check. “Can you get a bus or train to your home?” he asked, as an afterthought.

  “Oh, yes. There is usually one on the hour.” She finished with her purse and looked up. She felt strangely drawn to this man, as though to a mystery. Still, they were as unlike as chalk and cheese.

  “You think you can handle it then, do you?” He was locking the desk. “You’ll
be wanting to catch the early train to Scotland. That’s tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be on it, sir.” She bent down to adjust her stocking. A run was starting. It had caught in her shoe.

  “Hmmm. By the way, be sure that you wear your uniform, but bring some civilian clothes with you.” Was this bloody woman listening? She was still bending over. “I say!” Hamilton stooped, so as to get her eye. “After tonight, Valerie Sinclair, as we have known her, will have disappeared into the history books.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  She straightened up. “Right, sir,” she said a little breathlessly. Damn! There went her last pair of stockings! “I’ll be going now, and catch the bus.”

  Hamilton glanced at her legs.

  “Jolly good. Well then, good-bye, Valerie. I’d say you’ve made the right decision. I shall be waiting for you in Edinburgh. Leave your keys with the guard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned on his heel and strode rapidly out of the office. She could hear his footsteps disappearing down the stairs. “Thank you, sir.” She looked up. A photographic proof had just appeared; hanging out to dry. She had not meant to take it. Still wet, it was the darkroom print of a full Commander, Royal Navy. Jabbing with his pointer, neatly framed, he was issuing instructions....

  She was to go home, and tell lies.

  * * *

  “Up easy, girl!”

  Valerie smiled at the bus driver. She wondered if he was single. The door whanged shut and they were off. A cataract of clouds covered the sun, leaving its recipients suffering from the humidity that had fallen over the countryside where citizens, dabbing at foreheads with handkerchiefs, moved like slugs. Cars and jitneys bounced over threatened terrain, traveling across England the way pain travels along a nerve. Being British, the passengers sat apart. To the south, where the coast curved, waves of heat billowed from the tar sealed road. She stared out the window.

  The bus passed the Gloucester.

  She glanced back, but the cause of her uneasiness wasn’t there.

  Valerie closed her eyes, remembering the Royal. She heard the orchestra playing, the assertive baritones of the officers, asking her to dance. As she moved about the floor, her reverie was interrupted by the shrill and irritable voices of two small children, across the aisle, struggling with their nanny burdened with bags of white-papered packages, reeking of offal and fish. To calm them, the nanny was getting them to chant “Humpty Dumpty.”

  ABBOTSBURY, the sign said....

  Famous for its swannery. Round and round went the royal swans, in endless circles of stillness, like the women, having nothing else to do, who came to watch them. Could one cook them, like a goose? Weren’t their feathers coated with grease? She wondered if swans were good to eat.

  Maybe the necks...

  There was no telling what she might have to eat in France. Her thoughts returning to the Royal, she wished for a cigarette. Clementine Churchill had sent her a nice letter, on paper that smelled of jasmine, remarking she would see what she could do in recommending her for a better job. It had been some time, she still hadn’t heard.

  She scratched her nose.

  As the country flew behind her, photos of the Dorset Coast, called locally “Golden Cap,” filled her mind; and she thought of the vicarage: the sheer and dangerous slope of grass that ran down to the cliff. Blocked by a hedge, roots crawled over the edge to a straight drop of five hundred feet. Once, when she was ten, she had fought her way through, emerging on the lip of the precipice. She took pictures of it. After, she had stared at the slow-moving waters far below, white-topped breakers smashing into the rocky channel coast.

  Children do that.

  Climbing down fifty feet, she had climbed back up.

  Actually, nothing had been too daring for her to try: if the boys could do it, she could. If they called her bluff, she would leave them standing. Later, fierce fights ensued, after they stole two of her mother’s chickens. Her mother, Alma, had got them as chicks through a mail-order advert, appointing her daughter their guardian. Valerie felt honored, but after studying the mental processes of the birds for a few weeks, she had concluded that their brains were still waiting to arrive in the mail.

  When she walked into the vicarage, Newton Swyre, her parents—Vicar Edward Crewe and his wife, Alma—were having afternoon tea. Surprised to see her, she could sense their irritation. Strangers, friends of her mother’s, were on hand: a plethora of voices. Hurried introductions...names lost in the air. “Mama!” Brian, her little boy, fighting his way through a sea of legs, ran towards her shouting, “Are you going to take me back, Mama?”

  She could see her father, standing darkly in the doorway.

  “Yes, love.”

  But the boy would be safe, here at the vicarage, away from the rockets and explosions in the cities: the children must be protected. Besides, Lieutenant Carrington had insisted—oh yes! her mother made that clear—which got her guests talking about the navy again. A woman Valerie didn’t know asked her where they’d be sending her next. Word for word, the girl parroted Hamilton’s line. Weren’t the bombs still falling at Southampton? No, Valerie assured them, they were falling on London.

  Fans fluttered in the heat.

  Brian, heavy with ice cream, was put to bed for a nap. The grownups prepared to play cards. Annoyed that she had not called first, her parents attended to their invited guests.

  Valerie walked alone over to the church.

  Bushes of yellow gorse pushed in upon the road, heavy with the smell of summer’s heat. Old oak trees, gnarled from centuries of British history, stood massive sentinels to the eerie trilling of birds. Where the branches joined overhead, the country road seemed particularly narrow. Then, the sun would come streaming through, between the gaps of the leaves, sketching cobwebs on the slate of a child’s frightened mind. The air today was tasting hot and sweet, magnetic as if touched by a current. She licked her lips. Could the beams of light, high in the limbs spearing through the tops of the trees, curving down the coast, be the reason “Golden Cap” had received its name? She stepped to one side—into the leaves—and listened. A face was there. Except that it wasn’t a face. Trying to photograph it, it was gone. A voice...

  It will move through the trees....

  Valerie returned to the road, not daring to glance sideways at the Inhabitants. Within the grove, bronzed with sepia, shadowy beings were standing in the sunshine. Silvery at twilight—they were waiting to play with her. It was because she had to go away, she told them, but she had not told them why....

  For security reasons.

  She glanced back towards the house. Voices were drifting across the field. Someone was laughing. Valerie squinted. A sound, like wind. Thirty feet up, a giant rook exploded out of the branches, and flapped across her path!

  Click!

  She passed a rotted bench where the road bled away into slippery sheets of grass, tumbling down to the edge of the cliff five hundred feet above the sea. The church, tarnished with time and the weight of childhood memories, loomed out of the dusk as ominous and threatening as a forbidden book—possibly one of those by Frank Harris, Havelock Ellis, or Rudjer Boskovic that her father kept locked in a special cabinet in his bedroom.

  But there was something about her father’s books that he didn’t know. She thought of them as genies, hiding in a box from which they jumped forth at twilight, just before dark, to gather in the secret places of the woods, fearful and forsaken, or to crowd forward about the walls of the church, the sight of which was now causing dread to swell in her heart....

  It was where death lived.

  She entered the vestry, found a seat, and turned to the wall on the right. There, on the Roll of Honor, was the name of her brother. In alphabetical order, a short list of the living, the longer list, of the dead. Names of local young men mostly, navigators and cadets: Battle of Britain pilots who had gone up into the cold, dark, terrible air. Next to each name killed gleamed a cross
, polished in brass, and down near the bottom, the name of Basil Sinclair. Her mother had explained it. Though he had not come from this parish, her father had made the arrangements. Valerie, who had not been consulted, considered it a personal intrusion.

  The vicar meant it as a surprise.

  She recalled the day she received the dreaded telegram that read, “THE LORDS OF THE ADMIRALTY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND BASIL SINCLAIR IS MISSING, BELIEVED KILLED ON WAR SERVICE.” Her father had talked with her at length. Afterwards, he had told her, “You must remember, my dear, in a war like this, no one is privileged.”

  “Yes, Father, I’ve noticed.”

  Bombs had fallen on the small town of Bridport.

  Still in the church, the candidate said a short prayer. She closed her eyes. “Please, God, if you love me, be with me on this mission, and help me...to...” Tears came, words would not follow. In her heart, she knew prayer could not deliver her and neither could their God. The horrors of Hitler filled her future—there, in its ashes, where she would walk.

  She got up and walked out of the church.

  She saw the sun dancing, and it was like a disk—two disks shimmering, blue-grey silver rimmed with gold—and she intentionally let it burn her eyes for a few seconds. A third disk emerged from the second, vertically, and at right angles to the first. The south poles joined. She blinked, and uncrossed her eyes. The two suns slid back into one. It was how she took pictures, her film from the world. She knew she was different. Were there others, photographers she didn’t know about? She slogged along kicking at weeds, stumbling and feeling crazy, and wanting not ever to return.

  She arrived back at the house and opened the door and walked into the room where Brian slept. She sat down on the bed and put her arms around him. He was already awake, and he looked up at her. “Mama, why are you so quiet? What’s the matter, Mama? Mama! Grandpa hasn’t been saying his prayers.”

  The child spy...