by Karen Abbott
“Will I be seeing you later, Charles? You didn’t quite finish bringing me up to date with everything.”
Charles looked distinctly annoyed.
“I will see you later … but get back to your father! I told you not to draw attention to yourself!” His voice was cold and quiet; his eyes full of derision.
How dare he speak to her like that!
“I’ll return when I’m ready!” she hissed back. “You’re not my keeper!”
“That’s where you are mistaken!” Charles said quietly, his lips hardly moving so that no-one could lip-read his words. “Get back immediately or else I will have you removed from the island before you have time to turn round! Your behaviour is a danger to us all!”
With a sinking heart, Francine realised she had reacted foolishly. She had gone against the briefing they had been given. She looked around. The townsfolk portrayed a studious lack of interest in their conversation but she sensed that it was a sham. They were all aware that she was betraying her recent arrival on the island. Her flare of rebellion was replaced by a feeling of shame. Her cheeks flushed red.
“I’m sorry!” she muttered and fled back to the bread stall, wanting the ground to swallow her up from their sight. How could she have been so stupid?
Her father said nothing. He was serving a customer and, when the transaction was made he handed her some francs and an empty basket.
“Go and buy some vegetables and take them home to your mother. No doubt she will be pleased to see you,” implying that no-one else was!
Thoroughly ashamed with herself and blinking back tears of contrition, Francine did as she was bidden. There was no sign of Angela and Pierre. They had quietly left the scene. She avoided Charles by going to the other end of his vegetable stall and making her purchases from Madame Aubry, who had worked for the St. Clare family for years.
She felt that Madame Aubry’s eyes held censure for her and was thankful to be able to hurry away from the market. Head down, she swiftly made her way through the network of narrow streets, neatly set out centuries ago within the town walls.
Suddenly, she regretted having accepted the mission and her return to the island. She was obviously totally unsuited to the underground mission and the sooner she was able to leave the better. She would request a transfer as soon as she able! Everyone concerned would be better off without her, anyway!
A pang of distress hit her. How ashamed her parents would be!
She hardly noticed where she was going. It was a journey she had made many times every day until she had left the island. She could have walked it in her sleep. The buildings ran in continuous line, though not necessarily straight. The terracotta roof tiles reflected the warmth of the noonday sun and the wooden shutters at the windows were closed against the heat. They used to be freshly painted each year but now were faded and blistered. Hollyhocks in all shades of pink, red, cream and white sprouted out of cracks in the paving stones, standing tall against the grey-stone walls, giving life and vitality to the otherwise sombre streets.
Her parents lived on the outer perimeter of the town near the site of the former port of earlier centuries, long laid idle by the present-day port. More hollyhocks bordered the doorway of their home, softening the glare of the noonday sun as it bounced back off the walls into her eyes.
The inside of the house seemed dark and gloomy after the brightness outside, though she knew it wasn’t really so. It wasn’t a large house and most of the ground floor was taken up by the bake-house. The smell of freshly baked bread from the hot ovens broke through her self-imposed barrier of a mixture of resentment and shame and, as her mother lifted her head from where she was rolling out a large rectangle of pastry, she burst into tears.
Beatrice Devreux let out a cry of pleasure and concern and enveloped Francine in her welcoming arms.
“Oh, ma petite! Ma petite!” her own tears running into her daughter’s abundant hair.
Taking Francine’s tears to be tears of joy at being home, no awkward questions were asked, other than about her journey and arrival on the island and, after some fresh bread and a drink of weak coffee, Francine went up the stairs to her bedroom. It seemed just as she had left it.
Its walls were painted cream and it had a well-worn square of red carpet on the floor. The yellow checked gingham curtains were the same ones she had left there and a few ornaments from her teenage years adorned the small bedside cupboard. Seated upon a wooden chest of drawers was a large floral washing bowl and a matching jug of water. A plain wooden chair with a floral-patterned cushion was next to the bed.
From the small multi-paned window, Francine could see the sea and out across towards the mainland as far as Rochefort. The sea was bright blue, reflecting the summer sky. All reminders of war seemed far removed and Francine wished she were able to return to the carefree days of her childhood. She rested her folded arms upon the sill and gazed out. The tranquil familiarity of the scene brought a sense of peace to her heart and a sense of proportion to her mind.
She heard sounds indicating that her father had arrived home and, deciding to face his wrath sooner rather than later, she splashed some water onto her face and rubbed it dry with her towel. She picked up her brush and ran it through her hair and then fastened it back off her face with a piece of ribbon that lay in her drawer. Her face seemed pale. She pinched her cheeks between her finger and thumb to bring some colour back into them. That looked better!
Satisfied with her reflection, she ran lightly down the stairs. To her relief and surprise, her father made no mention of her behaviour in the market. As they ate their simple mid-day meal of baked mussels and fresh bread, she told them as much as she felt was common knowledge about her life in the Allied forces and a brief résumé of her journey to the island, describing Angela, to be called Angèlique, she reminded them, to her mother, adding lightly, with a sidelong, apprehensive glance at her father, “And she seems to have caught the eye of Pierre St. Clare already! He’s a fast worker, I’ll give him that!”
“Well, I hope you’re over your crush on him! His brother Charles is a much more suitable boy!” her mother asserted forcefully.
“Maman! We are no longer boys and girls! We have grown up!”
Beatrice sighed.
“Ah, too quickly forced to! And many youngsters have not been given the chance to grow up, just as in the previous generation!” She shook her head sadly, remembering the losses of the First World War. “I pray it will soon be over.”
“It will be!” Francine hastened to assure her. “That’s why I am here! Things are on the move at last!”
Beatrice dabbed at her eyes. “Be careful, my love. Be careful!”
Finding it hard to remain inactive inside the house, Francine asked if it were safe to go and sit on one of the beaches. She cast a mute appeal to her father.
“It’s so strange to be back here where everything is the same … yet not the same. I need to sort things out in my mind.”
“Nowhere is completely safe,” Jacques commented, “but the Germans are not in heavy numbers here. They are mainly further up the island. We try to carry on much of our life as normal. Just don’t make yourself conspicuous. Do you understand the German language?”
“A little … but nowhere near fluent.”
“Keep your papers on you and show them when asked. There have been no cases of the soldiers molesting girls. You should be safe.”
It was the hour of the afternoon siesta and the streets were almost deserted. Francine went down to the sea, to a quiet spot she knew in the shelter of the citadel wall and the natural rock formation at the northern end of the town.
It was there that Charles eventually found her. He clambered over the rocks and stood over her where she sat with her back against the sea-wall, staring ahead of her towards the quietly lapping sea. He knew she hadn’t heard him approach and he delayed speaking to her, letting the picture of her quiet musings imprint itself upon his mind, wondering if he would ever be able to te
ll her how much he loved her and longed for her love in return.
In a moment of despondency, he feared not.
He had left the market with a heavy heart, not wanting to face the fact that his hopes that after three years of absence, things would be different between him and Francine … that she would at last see him with open eyes … had proved to be false. Her eyes were still blinded by her one-sided teenage love for Pierre.
He understood how she felt … because didn’t he feel the same way about her? He didn’t blame Pierre for her blind attachment. Pierre had never encouraged her. He had had too many available local beauties to choose from, to even consider saving himself for a long-absent young admirer.
Charles had often wondered if Pierre would ever settle down and marry … and what sort of girl would captivate his cavalier heart. He wondered what it had been that had sparked so vibrantly between Pierre and Angèlique. Whatever it was, he wished it would spark between himself and Francine—but he was beginning to think that it never would. He had lived for too long in his elder brother’s shadow. He was just part of the passing scenery in Francine’s eyes!
Even so, he didn’t want her to get hurt … and he knew that she would if she persisted in throwing herself at Pierre’s feet. If that look of utter belonging that had passed between Pierre and Angèlique burned deeply, Pierre wouldn’t even notice Francine! He would trample her underfoot and be totally unaware that he had done so!
Others would notice though—and that hurt him. Others had seen her jealousy and her attempt to warn off her friend—and neither action was worthy of her. She must be made to realise that … for her own self-respect. But, oh, how his heart ached for her! I love you, Francine! When will you notice me?
How he wished he could loosen the piece of ribbon that held her hair off her face and run his fingers through its luxurious tresses! He could almost feel its silky smoothness on his fingers and they tingled in anticipation. His practical nature asserting itself for a moment, he wondered how she managed to maintain its shiny gloss amidst the wartime scarcities. Not having any sisters, he was totally ignorant of such matters.
He groaned deep within and thrust his hands into his pockets in case they moved towards her of their own volition.
“I knew I would find you here.”
His voice, when he finally spoke, was flat and had a cold edge to it. He refused her invitation to sit beside her and remained standing over her. It was the only way he could deal with the situation.
Francine didn’t look up at him. She hugged her knees and continued to look out to sea. Having had time to think over the events of the morning, she decided that it was up to her to clear the air between them.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she apologised contritely. “I can see now that I was out of order and could have landed myself in trouble.”
Charles felt incensed by her words. He knew he was over-reacting but a white-hot fire seemed to rage within him.
“Landed yourself in trouble! Is that all you care about? You could have landed every one of us in trouble … all because you couldn’t bear to see your friend get attention from Pierre! How selfish can you be?”
“I’m sorry?”
It was a question, not a repeat apology, though Charles seemed to think it was!
“And so you should be! I would never have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it for myself! Rushing over like that the minute Pierre looks at another girl … one far prettier than yourself, if you are in any doubt! … and trying to put her off him! ‘Always has an eye for a pretty girl … and don’t believe a word he says!’” his voice mimicked.
Francine flushed at his accurate mimicry of her words … but was horrified at his misinterpretation of them.
“But, I didn’t …”
“Don’t try to deny it! I was there, remember!”
“But … I was teasing her!”
“Warning her off, more likely!”
“No! She’s my friend!”
“Was!” he corrected. “I doubt if she’ll want to know you after that little demonstration of jealousy!”
She leaped to her feet and faced him angrily.
“I’m not jealous!”
“Yes, you are! You’ve always carried a torch for him! Your whole school knew it … and half of the ones left around have already made a point of telling Angel so!”
“Oh! ‘Angel’, is it? Are you smitten, too?” She couldn’t help it. His words had hurt and she wanted him to hurt, too.
“Did your better-looking brother move in too fast for you? I remember what you said last night. ‘I’ll love you forever!’ You were all over her! I’m surprised you didn’t snatch her up and kiss her properly! Or, don’t you know how?”
Charles’ face flushed angrily.
“Like this, do you mean?”
Before Francine had time to register what he had said, Charles had cupped her face with his hands and pulled her towards him, roughly covering her lips with his own.
Initially, Francine struggled to free herself but, as the kiss deepened, a change came over her so suddenly that she was powerless to resist. Her lips tingled with an intensity she had never experienced and she wanted more of him.
A spiralling sensation of melting heat seemed to flow through her body and she found herself moulding her body to his, her hands reaching up to entwine her fingers in his hair, holding his head close to her in case he should think of ending the kiss.
It was only when they both made a small moan of desire that they sprang apart, shaken by the intensity of their need. Francine found herself breathless, her heart pounding.
“Was that me you were kissing … or Pierre?” Charles asked unwisely, knocked for six by their kiss and hardly able to believe it had been as it was.
Francine felt shattered by the remark. It had been like the awakening of her soul, relegating all other dalliances to the obscurity of ordinariness.
Pierre had never kissed her … but Charles didn’t know that.
“There was no comparison!” she now said coldly. “Pierre knows how to kiss a girl properly! He’s not a novice like you! And he treats his girls more honourably!”
“Huh! More honourable, is he? I doubt if the Resistance would agree with you!”
As soon as he had said the words, Francine could tell that he wished he hadn’t … and the words pulled her up sharply!
“What has the Resistance got to do with it? There is no question about Pierre’s honour, is there?”
Charles turned away, preparing to leap up onto the seawall, intending to bring the conversation to a close.
“This has gone far enough. I only came to tell you that if you want to stay on the island, you had better get it into your head that our oath of allegiance is as binding as that of the Allies—and our leaders will not tolerate disobedience in any form. You are to attend a meeting tonight, so make sure you get some sleep this afternoon. I will come for you at eleven o’clock tonight.”
But Francine wasn’t to be sidetracked so easily. She grabbed hold of his arm and swung him back to face her.
“What did you mean about Pierre?”
At his refusal to answer, her eyes narrowed slightly.
“I’ll only ask someone else… if you won’t say!”
Charles felt a chill run through him. He hadn’t meant this to happen. He considered her threat and knew that she meant it. She would have to know. She was right—someone would be only too glad to tell her. He looked at her briefly, his eyes bleak and then looked away again, still reluctant to speak the words.
“Tell me!”
Somehow, she knew what he was going to say—and her heart screamed against it. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his emotion.
“With regard to the betrayal last October, there are four main suspects,” he admitted quietly. “Paul, Hubert, André … and Pierre!”
Chapter 4
Francine stared at him angrily. Even though she had somehow sensed what he was about to say, she cou
ldn’t accept it. It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be!
“You are despicable!” she accused him harshly. “And you talk of me being jealous! No-one in their right mind would believe that about Pierre!”
She blindly pushed him out of her way and began to clamber back over the sea-wall.
Charles leaped after her. He caught hold of her arm and pulled her back onto the beach.
“Will you stand still and listen to the whole story!” he shouted at her. “I don’t believe it either! No-one does, really … but the situation is there! Someone betrayed us! Someone who knew what the operation entailed … and he ,more than the others, was the one who had the better opportunity to pass the information on!”
“Then concentrate on the others! It wouldn’t be Pierre! Not in a thousand years!”
“War does things to people, Francine. It changes them.”
“Not Pierre!”
“He has changed, though … since he was discharged from the Allied forces. He saw some dreadful sights! We all did!”
Francine considered his words.
“What do you mean, ‘discharged from the forces’? Why was he discharged? Wasn’t it to come back here, like you?”
“Not really. He was discharged before that … after his injury.”
“What sort of injury?”
“Didn’t you notice? I thought you had eyes for no-one else! His right arm is useless. It just hangs at his side. He can’t fire a rifle or fight one hundred per cent. So, he was discharged.”
Francine felt a searing shock slice through her. She had been so caught up with her own reaction to Pierre’s presence in the market that she hadn’t even noticed his disability.
“Poor Pierre. Being best at everything was all he was interested in!”
She could only begin to imagine how it must have affected him.
“But I still don’t see him as a traitor!”
And it had nothing to do with her teenage crush on him, she vehemently told herself. No-one would change that much!
They parted, still on bitter terms.